.
. . iii . .
Her shoulder burns. Tongues of fire cut through the stiffness, shooting all the way up her neck and curling Venatrix's lips into a grimace.
This is good. Sleeping outside has not been doing her any favors.
Venatrix leans into the stretch again, and this time a groan of pain slips through her teeth. "Don't force it." Her mother's voice chimes in from the kitchen table, where she flips through a large manual of some sort. As if Venatrix hasn't been diligent in her stretches nine days out of ten.
(It should be ten. But some mornings don't find her conscious until they're passed, others find her awake and unmoving.
She should deserve some wiggle room.
Most people, she's found, deserve a lot more than they get.)
From the carpet on the empty hearth, Venatrix locks her arms behind her back, the heels of her palms brushing, and presses them into the rug. Between the burn and her singular remaining finger, it's hard to keep her right arm in place. Venatrix scoots forward, deepening the stretch. Ten…nine…eight… Head tilted back, her eyes flick to the crossed sword and battle axe that hang above the mantle, the array of funerary candles. Six…five…four… Various friends and family members had sent some over for Percy, and a few of Bellara's still linger too, unlit. Venatrix suspects they always will be. Her family has never been one for superstition, and frankly neither is she. Three…two…one.
As slowly as she can, Venatrix retracts herself from the stretch, then flops to one side, panting.
Dagmara peers up from her book. Venatrix flashes a thumbs up, then, realizing she only has a thumb on that hand, flicks her wrist in an attempt to indicate the gesture. Ugh. So dumb. Her eyes slip closed, just for a second. The sound of her breath rushes through her ears, heavy and rhythmic. She blinks.
Her mother stands over her, arms crossed, expression blank. "You are overexerting yourself."
"I'm doing what the doctors told me. So I can get better."
Venatrix doesn't like the way her mother's silence feels.
She sits up, hugging her knees. "I just want to get better," she says quietly. "I'm behind as is, I don't know how to—how to keep up."
"With whom?"
It's Venatrix's turn to be quiet now.
Her mother crouches down, her eyes far kinder than Venatrix deserves. "Honey, you don't have to keep up with anyone."
Bullshit.
Venatrix feels her expression harden. She turns away so Dagmara won't see it, picking herself up off the ground. Her mother means well, but it's stupid to pretend otherwise. She knows for a fact her parents were miles ahead of her by now—neither of them had to relearn how to use a weapon. Meanwhile, Venatrix has to relearn how to write her fucking name.
(She's falling behind, and she'll never catch up because there isn't enough left of her to run.)
"Why don't we take a jog to the Academy together?"
(Metaphorically speaking, of course.)
Venatrix swears her mother can read minds. Anything to get out of the house, she thinks, but the idea makes her skin prickle unpleasantly. Uncertainty stretches. Under her mother's questioning stare, Venatrix presses her lips together.
Pounding footsteps save her from a response. Iago breezes through the kitchen, snagging a banana as he goes, before disappearing into the pantry to audibly rifle around for more food. "I'm ready!" He skids into view; a pack of cheese crackers falls from his bag and explodes. "Ah, fuck." Hastily, he sweeps up the crumbs. Dagmara's eyes narrow as he plucks the last cracker off the floor and pops it into his mouth with a crunch. "What, it was five seconds. I'm ready now."
"You were supposed to be in training already," Dagmara counters.
Venatrix frowns.
"Isn't your year doing sprint conditioning today?"
Iago lets out a loud groan.
Dagmara sighs. "Let's go. Somebody has to make sure you actually get there. Venatrix—"
"I can run on my own."
(She'll have to do it eventually.)
Iago shoots her a horrified look at the mention of 'run'. "Wait, I thought we were driving, I can't do sprints after I run, I'll be way too tired!"
"More like too lazy," Venatrix mutters.
"Get in the car, you're already late." Iago skips to the garage; in the wake of his victory whoop, Dagmara turns to Venatrix, studying her carefully. "Don't overexert yourself, honey. I mean it."
Venatrix nods stiffly.
In her mind, though, she recalls how often running was used as a punishment for her own missteps. A minute late to training got her a half marathon. An hour late gets Iago a free ride. The garage door shuts, sealing Venatrix into the air conditioned kitchen with a forceful sucking sound.
The night before her Games she'd accused her parents of raising her to die. She barely remembers it, but she'd been wrong. They raised her to win.
So why is Iago still training?
The sudden emptiness of the house begins to seep into her skin. Vigorously, Venatrix shakes her head, her shoulders, then heads upstairs to change out of her sleepwear.
Despite the number of times she had to be peeled off the mountain trail, Venatrix does genuinely enjoy running. It's been the easiest thing to force her body back into—no extra equipment, no fingers required, no breath for conversation. Her sneakered feet tap a rhythm out of the empty house, into crisp morning air, down the driveway.
It already felt empty without Bell, but now it feels like a part of herself has gone too. Doesn't exist. Stuck in an arena that isn't there with people who no longer live.
(But a part of them is with her too.)
The her that's left has no choice but to try and keep moving.
So she does. Behind her, smoke billows from Morwenna's forge. Venatrix half-wonders what she's smithing, but she doubts the older Victor would want to speak with her let alone share her talent. Without pausing, she tears through the gates of the Village. The dead sprint feels good; she'll be winded in a minute or two, but fire surges through her muscles—she can't ignore that.
Are you moving forwards, or running away?
She forces her arms to swing faster, legs to run harder. Her breath picks up, tightening her chest; it really doesn't take much these days. Surroundings blur. Venatrix loses herself in the energy of the moment, the simplicity, the burn.
By the time she registers her surroundings, she's halfway to the Academy, just on the edge of town. She slows drastically. Remnants of her Victory still linger here: gold flags on the lampposts. Posters with her face. Parcel Day queues. We love you, her district says. We celebrate you. They crowd the sidewalks, hindering her path, and an ugly kind of nausea starts to build in Venatrix's stomach.
Heads turn as she whips past. Murmurs follow, prickling at the hairs on the back of her neck.
Her feet stutter and dodge through now-gaping pedestrians. The decrease in speed aches, first internally, and then physically, and Venatrix starts to think her mother may have been right about exerting herself. She limps to the corner of a sidewalk, jogging in place as a car passes. Someone calls her name.
Venatrix flinches, spotting the person—people.
They're beginning to catch up.
Instinctively, she tries to pick up the pace again, but pain shoots up her leg. She sucks in a breath, buries the grimace. Muscle cramp. Shit. Excitement pumps through the crowding pedestrians as the word of the new Victor's presence spreads, and Venatrix shuffles across the street, so focused on disguising the muscle pain as a shitty jog that she nearly tackles the pair of boys that approach her. "Shit," she gasps. "Sorry, I—no. I don't—huff—I don't do—auto—graphs."
Both boys groan. Venatrix jogs in place, testing the limits of the cramp in her leg. She doesn't recognize them. Can't be Academy kids; too much admiration, not enough respect. One of the kids flips open his cellular. Already more people have gathered; a hum of chatter fills the air.
Venatrix's eyes flit between them. She shows her teeth as the kid's friend snaps a picture of them. "Me next, and then—"
"Hey Venatrix!"
A cell phone flashes.
"Venatrix, can I get your picture?"
Hands brush her shoulders, her shirt.
"Miss Pyke—"
Blood thick in her ears.
"Hey, I was next, asshole!"
"Watch it, kid!"
"Venatrix, over her—wait, come back!"
Her muscles scream. Venatrix tears herself free—she ducks into an alley as the two boys turn on someone in the crowd, zig-zags between buildings, trips over her feet. Where she goes doesn't matter; the heartbeat in her ears pulls her away. The sun beats hot on her back now. Sweat sticks the shirt to her back. Venatrix makes eye contact with a poster of herself, and she runs.
She's supposed to have a destination, but the only sense of relief comes when she sees green under her feet. The buzz of the town recedes. Venatrix half-stumbles over the new terrain, but it feels better, feels right. Simple brick houses flash past—a neighborhood. Quiet one. Not far from the campgrounds where she met Agate and Percy just before classes started again—
The scent of a campfire hits her.
Clings to the back of her throat, the back of her memory.
No. Keep running.
She cuts towards a crop of trees, through weed-lawns, through open gates, through gardens. Stiff-legged. Panting. When she trips, she falls onto all fours and retches. Nothing comes up, despite how much her arms shake, her whole body shakes. Head spins. There's a ringing in her ears, an all-too-familiar howl…
Just give up. You know you wanted to, at the end.
('Makers, how she knows.)
But the monster inside her was stronger. Can't run from that.
A shout cuts through the haze. A door slams. Venatrix jerks her head—a person steps out of the house (what house?) (their house, probably; their yard). Rigid shoulders tense. Her eyes zero in on the hatchet gripped tight in their fist.
Venatrix bolts. Her legs scream—both now—but panic and adrenaline know her like an old friend. A fence springs up in her way, chain-link and vicious, and Venatrix throws herself at it, no hesitation. Toes find purchase, fingers clench and slip. She breaches the top, jumps, and something rips—but no matter, there is one thought, and that thought is run.
(Some fighter you are.)
Something warm drips down her calf. Unimportant—as long as she can move, she moves.
She doesn't know how long that is before she collapses under the safety of a cherry tree and passes out.
The Academy gates have never been so far.
She comes to in a rush of pain and blurred voices.
Not alone…
Venatrix jerks into consciousness. Her back presses into something that feels like rough bark. Crouched figures resolve into concerned faces, ones that take her a minute to place, and when she does, a wave of guilt hits her like an avalanche. It sticks to her like mud, caked into her very pores.
Hera Silverhorn's worn face stares back at her, wary but kind.
It hurts to move. Venatrix tries to melt into the tree to no avail. Her eyes catch a flash of red on her calf; as soon as she notices it, the wound begins to throb. A whimper slips from her throat. The lines etched around Hera's mouth deepen. She calls out, and a deeper voice responds—one of the brothers. "Bet they're looking everywhere for you," Hera says.
The nausea swells.
There's not enough in Venatrix's stomach anymore for her to throw up. She doesn't have the energy to try, so it eats her from the inside, renders her silent and tight-throated.
Hera's wife joins them with a wet towel, a bottle of peroxide. Words pass between the two. Venatrix thinks she catches "hospital" before Danae turns to her, speaking very clearly. "Venatrix, your wound needs to be cleaned. Will you let me do that?"
It's like she's a wild animal, ready to snap at any moment.
And it's a valid precaution. The guilt churns.
Venatrix forces the buzz in her body to subside and nods. The towel hits her leg, and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from making noise. Her eyes float upwards, to glossy leaves and dark branches.
Of course her subconscious had to drag her here.
She hardly remembers the last time she'd stopped by Percy's place; it certainly hadn't been after the games. Some friend. But memories still linger in abundance, bittersweet as the cherries she, Percy, and Agate would stuff their faces with after training.
There are few berries left now. What remains of the harvest lies scattered in the dirt around her.
Danae gives a warning, and peroxide sizzles into her flesh. Venatrix hisses, jerking her leg away. Behind Percy's stepmother, a grim-faced Hercules watches with little emotion—what is there reminds her who he would have preferred to step out of that arena.
(It's how Percy always looks at her in her dreams.)
But Hercules says nothing, and neither does she.
Embarrassment seeps in—how dare she force them to take care of her. How dare she be anything less than a Victor. But Hera and Danae finish cleaning her up and usher her into their rickety old station wagon. Another wave of guilt joins the medley—if Percy had won, they could've gotten a nicer car.
His life was worth so much more than a fucking car.
Hera speaks into her cellular on the way to the Academy hospital. Judging by her responses, it's Venatrix's parents on the line. How will they get me in unseen?
She can't be seen.
A frosty silence lingers in the air as they cross into campus. Hera hangs up. Venatrix misses the words exchanged by the Silverhorn mothers, but the tension is impossible to miss.
To them, this place is a ghost town.
Venatrix feels it too. A ghost town and a breeding ground for monsters not-yet-dead. How many souls had occupied the rooms she and Percy had rented?
Her parents are waiting at the hospital. She can't look them in the eye, but she mumbles something unintelligible to the Silverhorns before they sweep her in their arms. "Oh, honey we were so worried," Dagmara murmurs once they have privacy. Her father says nothing, but he hugs her just as tight. A nurse interrupts for a once-over before they can pry, her assistant trailing like a demure but loyal hound.
Venatrix stiffens. Coquina spares her a small, professional smile, then scurries off to prepare a tetanus shot.
The sigh that falls from Venatrix's mouth turns into a drawn-out groan. Her parents shoot her a look. Thankfully, Coquina doesn't stay for the shot and the stitches, abandoning her nurse for more pressing menial duties. Or conflict of interest. Either way, Venatrix's focus locks onto the cold feeling of the needle sliding through her flesh, the nurse's touch on her calf. Mrs. Silverhorn had been right—the wound is deep. No amount of cleaning and disinfecting can hide it.
She doesn't think about that now. Instead, memories flood her mind of gentler hands, deeper wounds, softer smiles. Kindness she never should've received in a place so desperate; kindness she never deserved.
How pathetic to reminisce about a situation that could never be anything more than tragic.
Still, she longs for what she had in that animal skin tent.
"There you go, all done."
Venatrix blinks, mumbles her thanks. Once the nurse leaves, her parents wait for her to explain herself, but the humiliation stings too painfully for her to speak. The best they get from her is "cut through town" and "axe man," which is less than they got from the Silverhorns.
Venatrix doesn't even remember if she thanked them. They're long gone now.
(Once again, she's too late.)
Dagmara drives all three of them home in relative silence, stating that she will return later for Iago and the rest of her duties. Venatrix will be trapped under her father's care. The thought of returning to that empty house almost tempts her to run away again. Maybe she'll run to her own even-emptier manor. At least that one's never been lived in.
But when she gets home, she flops onto the couch instead, flipping on the television so her father won't be tempted to talk to her. He doesn't; he only brings over a bag of ice and a towel for her sprain as per nurse's orders.
Television chatter drifts in and out of Venatrix's ears as she stares at the ice pack; below it, her bandaged leg. Her left hand curls into a fist. Chances are, this will leave another scar.
For the next few days, her parents don't let her out of their sight.
It's pathetic. It grates. Venatrix refuses to indulge either of them in conversation while she heals up; her mother responds to Venatrix's pettiness with a brute-force penmanship routine, practically locking Venatrix in her office at the Academy while she grades papers or peruses a book. Back to the swing of things so quickly. Really, Venatrix should've known better than to try and outlast Dagmara Illura-Pyke in a silent treatment contest.
Antsy and stiff, she breaks it. "What are you reading?"
Dagmara flips up the cover. Panemian Sign Language. Venatrix frowns. "Your father thinks it might be…useful." She accompanies her words with what Venatrix assumes are the corresponding gestures.
Useful… for her, maybe. Venatrix doesn't think she has enough fingers for that.
Is that what the Avoxes use? The thought comes with the memory of a dying man's final, unheard words, and Venatrix leaves her mother to her studying while she stretches the cramps in her new writing hand.
She sighs. Her handwriting still looks like shit. Honestly, it always has.
Three hours left on the clock.
One relapse, one slip-up, is all it takes for them to lock me back up.
Venatrix isn't enough of a fool to think there won't be others. This is different, she reminds herself. It's not the Capitol, it's not Astic and her fucking psych ward. They care about me here.
Her parents do, at least. This, she knows.
She can't say the same about the cold stone walls of the Academy. Venatrix doesn't think it cares for anyone.
A/N: Sorry. I forgot FFN existed :P