.
. . v . .
September, 151 ADD
Nobody's said a word about it, but now that classes are starting again, Venatrix feels like she ought to. So she does. Seems like it's becoming her place to say things people don't want to confront.
"Iago, why are you still training?"
"I still have to finish my education, you know," he says in between loud bites of cereal.
"That's not what I—"
"You don't want me to go to school?" Iago's eyes widen. "You want me to drop out and work in the quarries? Oh, for shame…"
Venatrix rolls her eyes. "Shut up."
"Moooom," he calls, not shutting up, "she wants me to work in the mines—"
Dagmara, who'd drifted silently into the kitchen, shares a look with Venatrix. Lighthearted exasperation quickly bleeds away; she sees through Iago's humor.
"—guess I'll just pack my bags…head out on the next bus out to Hawkshead…"
"Iago, you're dawdling," Dagmara clips. "Run off to school now." He scarfs down the last of his breakfast, then makes to grab his backpack. Dagmara snatches it away. "I mean it. Run."
Iago's grin fades to a look of horror as he processes their mother's words. Venatrix's lips twitch. But he obeys, far fewer protests spilling from his mouth than Venatrix expects.
Part of that worries her. If he slacks off in training for the next few years, he'll never make volunteer.
Once he's out the door, Venatrix turns back to her mother. Any sense of lightheartedness seems to have followed him out. The air thickens; Dagmara sighs. "So? Why?"
"He cannot simply drop out," Dagmara says. She picks at the dark green polish on her nails. "He needs the education, and he needs the training—don't look at me like that, you know he does."
"He doesn't want to drop out," Venatrix grits out. He wants to volunteer.
Dagmara sinks into one of the kitchen chairs, folding her hands. "You know they might want him." Her voice is soft, but it aches.
Venatrix knows. It's far more likely than not. Too many interviews, too many subtle promises.
"We still have two years," Dagmara says. "A lot can happen in two years."
Her body feels too heavy. Venatrix slumps forward, elbows resting on the table. She blinks stinging needles from her eyes. "What if he wants to go now?" The words barely eke out.
"Too bad."
Venatrix huffs in surprise.
Dagmara shrugs. "He can compete as much as he likes, but he will not get chosen. And if he still wants to try anything funny, we gag him at the Reaping again." So she noticed that. Venatrix nods. She isn't opposed to paying off someone else to do it again, be it in money or promises.
"And the year after?"
Dagmara says nothing. The longer the silence goes on, the more her eyes begin to unfocus, drifting off to somewhere unknown. It almost looks like hopelessness. Venatrix doesn't like it. In fact, it terrifies her, reminds her too much of those first few weeks after they came home without Bell.
It angers her too. The powerlessness. The reality—that all three of them were bred to become monsters in order to survive. Engrained from birth with the desire for it. And whose fault is that? The system itself, or the parents that carried out its will?
"Let's just go," Dagmara finally says. "I'm going to be late for my class."
Obediently, Venatrix follows her mother to the car, to the Academy for another day's work in cranking the wheel. Her thoughts still fester.
Are we really all monsters if we don't have a chance to be otherwise?
"Hey, Eri." Venatrix flicks a crumpled up bit of paper at her fellow Victor's head. "Psst. Eridan," she hisses.
"What."
"How'd you pick your talent?"
Eridan looks up at her from the stack of papers he's grading. He and Venatrix are cooped up in the former's office, relegated to grading entrance exams for first-year trainee potentials—mercifully, Dagmara gave her a break from penmanship. Pretty sure these tests don't even count anyways. "Uhh, I dunno." He scratches his temple with the end of his pen. "Why?"
"Because I have to pick mine soon. Obviously."
"Heh, they have questions for you and your parents on this."
"Phaetheus. Answer me."
"Yikes, this kid said you won the 127th. Now that is embarrassing." He scratches a red X into the paper. "What were you saying?"
Venatrix rolls her eyes. "Victor's talent."
"Oh. Well, I tried a bunch, and painting was the one I hated the least. And was half-decent at."
Venatrix hums.
"They let me do it in the Capitol too!" His voice is way too cheery; Venatrix doesn't press further into that.
She glances at her own paper, spying the question Eridan mentioned. This kid, at least, has her year right, though they've mixed up her parents. Venatrix draws a solid red X over those two questions. As much as the writing practice has helped, the left-handedness still feels awkward. "I don't really know how I'm supposed to have a talent when I can't even hold a pen right," she scowls.
"That sounds like a 'you' problem."
"Tch. Asshole." Eridan's tone is lighthearted, but frankly, Venatrix isn't in the mood. Her glare holds firm until he turns apologetic. "What I need to do is figure this out, not waste my time on this bullshit." She flicks the paper off her desk.
Eridan appears thoughtful. "Not all talents require holding pens or brushes. You could try bodybuilding."
Venatrix shoots him a glare.
"Or dancing or acting or something? Or, uh, baking?"
"Agate said she'd try to teach me marble sculpting, but that seems like it requires, y'know, two functional hands."
Eri raises a brow. "Who's Agate?"
"My bes—my, uh, friend." The word she doesn't say suddenly tastes like acid. "The marble sculptor."
"Ooh, your friend?"
"Not like that," Venatrix says quietly. Quiet enough, apparently, for Eridan not to press. They return to their work (or try to, and struggle in silence).
When Venatrix finishes grading her exam, she pulls out the notebook she's been using to recopy her mother's novel as well as the book itself. Even now, she's barely made it through the first few chapters. Instead of writing, she chews on her pen and stares at both with a hateful sort of dread in her stomach until lunch, where she meets Agate in the cafeteria.
Agate, at least, seems happy to see her, even if her friend's smile is cautious. That doesn't stop her from slinging an arm over Venatrix's shoulders and ruffling her hair. Venatrix dives out of her clutches with a squawk, nearly dropping her bag; Agate's chuckle is cheery.
This is the most progress she's made towards her Victor's talent—if she's lucky, maybe Agate will offer to do it for her.
Venatrix would turn her down on principle, of course. If she can't even accomplish the bare minimum of post-arena Victorhood, she might as well have thrown her final battle—another thing her principles abhor. No easy way out, huh?
And so, while Agate leads her to the sculpting studio and guides her through the process of setting up their work station, Venatrix doesn't protest. Old newspapers litter the ground and table. In one corner of the studio, vaguely humanoid shapes try to escape a large, half-carved slab of stone surrounded by a pool of dust and marble shards. Agate sets out the tools—a few hammers and chisels, carving knives, pencils, and a sketchbook for ideas. They won't have Venatrix working on stone just yet, she says. Venatrix still doesn't protest, not even when Agate plops a bar of soap into her hand. "What do I do with this?"
"Practice," Agate beams. "Look, I know you're not much of an artist, but everyone has to start somewhere." She picks up the soap, displaying every angle for Venatrix to see. "This sort of sculpting is different from clay or metal. You can't add to it—only chip away. Make sense?" Venatrix nods. "You want to think of your subject as if it's stuck in the stone—well, soap—and you're helping it get out."
Venatrix glances at the stone behemoth in the corner, and she thinks she understands. "Okay. What's my subject?"
"I dunno. Whatever's in your heart." Agate hands her back the soap bar.
Venatrix stares at it.
"I can't tell you what to create, that has to come from you," Agate says. She watches expectantly as Venatrix makes no move for the tools, then sighs. "Fine, just make a sword."
"Okay." Easy enough. At Agate's suggestion, she reaches for a carving tool instead of a hammer. The bar sits flat on the table; Venatrix works on scoring an outline into the surface, and then, when that becomes too difficult, hacking away at the quadrants she needs to cut out. She digs the point of the tool into the soap, wiggling it around to deepen the mark. Agate, who'd meandered off to her own workstation, turns her head at the noise.
They both wince when the bar cracks in two. "You're supposed to carve it, Trix, not stab it."
"I know how to carve things."
(She carved a line down Mariposa's face.)
But this is a tool, not a weapon. The bar of soap is not an opponent. She shouldn't treat it as such.
Groaning, Venatrix leans onto her elbows and pinches the bridge of her nose. She never liked the slow caress of a knife.
(Until she did.)
No matter. Agate hands her a new bar of soap (she'd brought a few, clearly expecting Venatrix to be shit at this), and this time, Venatrix takes her time outlining the cross-shape of the soap sword and scraping away. It's not as easy or satisfying as stabbing—her left hand holds the knife awkwardly. It slips more often than not, despite the attempts to stabilize with her right side. Soap shavings soon litter the newspaper surface, but she's barely made a dent in her goal.
Venatrix lets out a soft growl of frustration. She glances at Agate; her friend is entirely focused on her own project, chipping away at her hunk of marble. The chink of her hammer against chisel against marble is almost pleasant. Agate's expression—a curious furrowed-brow pout that Venatrix knows well—sends a pang of fondness through her chest.
She's so focused she doesn't notice Venatrix's approach. Venatrix tries to stay in her peripheral just in case; she wouldn't want Agate to accidentally hack off a nose.
The piece looks too important. It's nothing like the tiny figurines or spear-riddled slab Venatrix has seen in the past. This might even be her first big commission.
Slowly but surely, the figures are starting to take shape. The one on the left seems to be either holding or reaching for a long, narrow object that sticks out of the ground. The other, slightly taller and more top-heavy, has one limb that elongates into something curved—a bow. "It's us," Venatrix breathes.
The chink-chink-chink stops. "Who else would it be?"
Her tone tries to be soft, but it wavers with emotion. Venatrix's head snaps towards her; Agate blinks quickly, trying to play it off with an awkward chuckle, but Venatrix knows her better. Agate's tools are limp in her hands. They fall to the floor when Venatrix yanks her into a tight hug. For a few minutes, Agate heaves wet, shaky breaths, then composes herself enough to apologize, repeatedly. "I'm sorry, Trix, I shouldn't—I shouldn't put this on you, you went through so—s-so much, I—fuck. 'M sorry—"
Venatrix shushes her, wraps her tighter.
"'M such a bad friend," Agate mumbles into her shirt. "Supposed to take care of you…"
"Shut up, Aggie."
Agate huffs a laugh that sends them swaying. She hugs Venatrix back just as strongly, then unbearably so, before releasing her and stepping back. They stand in silence for a minute, catching their breaths, eyes landing naturally on the unfinished marble sculpture.
"It really is beautiful," Venatrix says, but she doesn't just mean the marble—it's the fact that her friend is literally carving a larger-than-fucking-life statue of herself and their missing link, the sheer sweat and talent and time Agate will put into this. It's overwhelming and genuine and undeniable in the way that the Capitol's adoration isn't.
(Agate is honoring Percy far more than Venatrix ever will.)
(She can't do this. The only things Venatrix can make are ugly corpses.)
Agate ducks her head, unusually humble. She claps marble dust from her hands and pats Venatrix on the shoulder—(ack, stiff… forgot to do my stretches today)—then departs to grab some water and snacks. Venatrix declines the offer of vending machine cookies.
Reluctantly, she returns to her own shitty project. The statue looms, a reminder of all she cannot do in addition to what was lost. Venatrix shakes her head, forcing the selfish thought from her mind; even so, part of her wishes she had the talent to carve Mariposa into their midst. The three of them together were the best part of the Games, after all.
(You had to ruin it.)
Work on the fucking soap, goddammit.
Picking up the carving knife, she turns the bar on its side, digs in the blade. If I can cut a larger chunk in one go, this'll be much faster—
It slips; both the knife and the soap clatter to the ground. Venatrix curses. She ducks under the table, scoops up the tool. The soap is a bit dented, but otherwise intact. Honestly, this might work out in her favor; less corners to carve…
Something else catches her eye.
One of the newspapers under the foot of the table. Venatrix scoots closer, brow furrowed. It's one of the district newspapers, dated a couple months back. "MINING TOWN MURDER", the headline glares, "HAWKSHEAD MAN SLAUGHTERS WIFE, LEAVES CHILD ABANDONED." The article continues, "Thursday morning, Peacekeepers found Hawkshead Quarry foreman Harvey Salister, aged 37, alone at his residence and covered in…"
But Venatrix isn't reading anymore. Her eyes zero in on the mugshot accompanied by the article; shaking fingers tear the paper from beneath the table, holding it inches from her nose because she's seen that face. She knows that face—she remembers how it begged for her mercy in the white tile room.
It can't be the same one, it can't it can't it can't—
The air seems to get thinner, the walls creeping closer.
Harvey Salister.
—kill him kill him kill him—
Doors slam open. Venatrix jumps; her head slams into the underside of the table with a yelp. She scrambles backwards. The newcomer's cheerful tone—Agate?—quickly morphs to one of worry. Concern. Fear? Venatrix backs away. She hits the wall, crouches low. Only now does she realize she still holds the carving knife.
She grips it tighter.
The person—yes, it's Agate—keeps speaking, tone frantic, gestures placating. It doesn't make sense. Her knuckles go white. Agate's voice hurts. Blood pounds too thick in Venatrix's ears to make out the words. When Agate steps closer, it spikes. "Get away!"
More words. Another step—
"Don't TOUCH ME! Don't touch me get out go AWAY—!"
Tears blur her vision, but she thinks Agate listens. The noises don't stop, though, and the howls…
shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up
("I-I have a family. A daughter; she's-she's small. Just like your sister.")
shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up
("They can't be kids, do you understand? They're obstacles.")
"Venatrix."
It's the same voice. Her eyes squeeze shut, as if that could make it go away.
"Trixie, look at me."
The demand is gentle, but the knife is tight in her grip. On instinct, she slashes. Curses follow—Dad?—she presses tighter against the wall as he wrestles the tool too easily from her fingers. Now, her eyes are wide open; he tosses the knife away, hands held out to show he doesn't plan to use it. "Look at me, okay? Easy."
He kneels in front of her; behind him, Agate hovers like a concerned shadow. A line of red trickles down Oberon's palm.
The other hand holds the scrap of newspaper—of evidence.
"You're okay," he says. "Come here."
Just like that day in the white tile room, she does. And just like that day, he hugs her so recklessly, as if he could never be afraid no matter how much blood she spills. Venatrix feels her body go limp.
(He doesn't tell her he's proud.)
(She doesn't know if she wants him to.)
When he stands, she forces herself to comply. She rubs salt from her eyes, suddenly acutely aware of Agate still lingering in the studio. Oberon says something to her quietly, then she nods and leaves. One last backwards glance—Venatrix avoids it. She follows her father out to the parking lot, wordlessly waiting while he unlocks the car.
Part of Venatrix is convinced that he's going to scold her, or lecture her, or something worse, whatever that may be. But he doesn't. Every now and then his mouth opens, as if to say something, and Venatrix tenses.
Eventually, he does speak: "I'm sorry. You were never supposed to learn his name."
Then dead silence all the way home.
Venatrix would be grateful for it—and part of her is—except now that she knows the name, she'll never unlearn it. One eye will always be attuned to it, always looking. Even now, Salister echoes relentlessly through her mind, and Venatrix could swear she's seen it before somewhere else.
That night she dreams of the wolf again.
She can't see it, but she feels the walls of the cage pressing down. She's not alone—Harvey Salister sits there with her, and the minute she smells him she pounces. Begs turn to screams. Her teeth rip gleefully into his sallow flesh, but as she rends and tears, his face changes. Scraggly hair turns full, peppered black-and-grey. Thin brows thicken and furrow deep; hollow cheeks become strong, sharp, fuzzy with hair; shoulders broaden. His eyes glow green.
Venatrix tears open her father's throat.
The walls close in. White walls, but beneath the blood, the scent of antiseptic cuts like a knife.
She staggers away, staggers awake.
Ever since she'd gotten sick, her mother forbade her from sleeping outside. Not even an ounce of her remembers to listen. Half-dazed, Venatrix stumbles outside, gasping in fresh air. It doesn't cure the nausea, but she's too tired to throw up; her body stumbles towards her tree in the backyard, collapsing amidst its roots. Chill air sweeps through her sweat-soaked clothes, but Venatrix welcomes it. With it comes the smells of grass, pine, damp dirt. Her heart still pounds, breath still ragged, but she closes her eyes.
She forgot her sleeping bag. Hard roots poke at her skull, uncomfortable but real. As her breath calms, she starts to shiver. Still, she lays.
There's movement by the house—she only knows when the lights flick on. A tense silhouette steps out, something poised in its grip. By the time it gets close enough for Venatrix to recognize her father's frame, holding the sword he keeps under his bed, her own has untensed. Oberon's shoulders relax when he picks her out amidst the dirt and roots, releasing a quiet sigh. He lowers the sword, leaning it against the tree, and turns back to the house. Venatrix watches. It doesn't take long for him to return, thermal blankets in tow. Wordlessly, he drapes the reflective fabric over her body; Venatrix nestles into it, accepting the offering, watching silently as he forms the other into a bed and settles down into it, joints cracking.
He looks at her, and lays the sword between them.
It's less of a barrier, more of a truce. He turns his back, and for all Venatrix knows, goes to sleep. Her eyes stay open, minutes, an hour, but he hasn't moved aside from quiet, even breaths.
Venatrix could cross the barrier if she wanted, pick up the sword and strike him.
Instead, she turns away, and falls into dreamless sleep.
The sword is still untouched when they both wake, cold and sore as hell. Not cold enough for a frost, but it will be soon. Venatrix can feel it in her bones—especially her clavicle. As her father stirs, grumbling like a man with a few more decades than he has, Venatrix's hand gravitates towards the blade.
Her left one, of course. The metal carries a bite, as if it sucked the chill straight from the earth. The leather pommel isn't much warmer. Venatrix's fingers close around it; she stands, hefting the sword as she does. It's just as heavy as she remembers, just as comforting.
She levels it at her father's half-sitting frame.
He blinks. "Wait here. Get stretched out."
With the movements of someone who's still waking up, Oberon picks himself off the ground and jogs back to the house. Venatrix complies with the demand. He returns with another sword—the one that hangs over the mantle—and a grin. It's a challenge, but also a question. Are you ready?
Venatrix gives her arm one final tug over her head, and levels her sword.
Stepping out from the protection of the tree, they circle each other, cautious. Atypical for both of them. These swords aren't sharpened regularly, but they are not mere decoration, and as far as Venatrix knows, her father has been taking just as long to lick his wounds as herself. But there's not much that can put a damper on nearly forty years of experience. Oberon twirls his sword.
Venatrix reacts quickly, catching the blade and thrusting it back towards him. She twists her weapon, and—
Oberon's sword tumbles from his grip. His mouth falls open in shock.
He looks at Venatrix, then tilts back his head and laughs.
Still dumbfounded, Venatrix relaxes her stance, re-analyzing the match. The twist of her blade had bent his wrist at an awkward angle, something that likely exacerbated the still-healing break in his forearm. He's still laughing, though. "Do you want to switch hands?" Venatrix asks.
He ponders this. "Nah. …Don't tell your mother."
Venatrix almost smiles. They reset. She rolls out her shoulders, cracking her neck; Oberon attacks first again, and this time he survives her riposte. They trade achy blows. It's probably for the best that they're doing this in the comfort of their backyard because 'Makers, this is embarrassing. Venatrix feels the lack of practice in every swing, curling her lips into a grimace. A nick on the forearm becomes a blade to the throat, and they reset again.
But it's the same. If the tip of her weapon could scratch lines in the air, Venatrix would feel a neurotic itch to erase them and redo the strike over and over again. Hell, that's probably what she needs—training drills. Ugh. Even before the Games, she wasn't this terrible with her offhand.
If it's any consolation though, her father is… clearly not doing any better. Venatrix knows how he fights. She shouldn't be able to maneuver him to trip over a tree root so easily, or snag a hole in his shirt that would've ripped his stomach wide open in a real fight. Never in her life has he gone easy on her, so this must be really embarrassing.
…That does make her feel a little better.
She helps him up anyway. Again, they reset, and again, Oberon makes a stupid mistake, Venatrix reacts too slowly to take advantage, and ends up pinned against the tree.
They reset. They strike, and fail, and claim another round of bruises and scrapes. Oberon doesn't scold her missteps, and she doesn't mock his—almost like equals. So equally pathetic that Venatrix hardly feels the sting of failure.
This is what she missed. Her blade doesn't quite sing, but every muscle in her body—even the stiff ones—is an off-tune orchestra.
A shout rings across the yard.
Both Venatrix and Oberon stutter to a halt. It comes again—Venatrix recognizes her mother's voice, likely drawn out by the sound of clashing weapons. Oberon swipes her sword, aggressively clueless. "Shit shit shit shit shit…"
Hiding is futile.
Dagmara's eyes seem to bug out as she gets close enough to notice the cuts and scrapes, let alone the swords. "Oberon," she growls, "what the hell do you think you're doing?! Swords? Sharpened swords?! Are you out of your fucking mind? You—"
She cuts herself off to inspect Venatrix's face (her cheek smarts from a stray blow, but that's it, really, they were wise enough not to aim for the head), her arms (those fared far worse), torso, legs (Dagmara's features twist at the holes in her clothes). Dagmara whirls around to continue her tirade, but it fades to a growl when she finds similar wounds and a sheepish look on her husband's face. "Inside. Now.
"And you." Dagmara hooks a finger at the back of Venatrix's shirt collar; immediately, her shoulders scrunch up. "I thought I told you to sleep inside."
So she did notice the sleeping bags. Oberon gathers them up now. "It's okay, I was with her," he tries.
"Oh, of course, and then you'll both get sick, wouldn't that be wonderful?" Her sarcasm is painful. "Stupid," she scoffs under her breath.
"Love you too, honey."
Inside, Dagmara drops them off at the kitchen table, recruiting Iago's help when he pokes his nose in. She mutters crossly while she works; Venatrix catches snippets about "emotional stability" and "pulling muscles" and tunes it out, her leg bouncing frantically against the rung of her chair. Leftover excitement, nothing more. Breathless as the matches had left both Venatrix and her father, she could've gone a couple more rounds.
It won't be long before she has a sword in her hand again—this time, maybe one of the training blades. She meets Oberon's eyes again, a brief flicker, and she knows he understands. For all the shame he attempts to project for his actions, Oberon looks far too at ease in the shoulders, like some sort of tension has finally dissipated.
At least, until Iago "accidentally" pours half the bottle of peroxide over the gash on his arm, and he yelps in pain. Without looking up, Dagmara nudges her son out of the way to take over cleaning Oberon's wounds while Iago meanders over to her. He pokes at a sore spot on Venatrix's upper arm. "It's just a bruise," she says, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
"Nnnno it's not, it's bleeding like hell."
"Oh."
He patches the cut up, without incident this time. Oberon has the decency to shoot her an apologetic look. The rest of their scrapes don't take much longer, and Dagmara sends the pair of them off to get ready for the day. Oberon stays seated. Tough luck. Part of her wants to speak up in his defense, more for her own sake than anything—it's about damn time I picked up a sword, goddammit—but the rest…
By the time Venatrix turns around, she's halfway up the stairs. She ducks low, peering between rail spindles to get a glimpse. There is no yelling. Instead, Dagmara leans against the back of Oberon's chair, her face buried in his hair. He says something she can't hear, to which her mother raps a light fist against his head and gestures sharply with her thumb. He laughs.
Venatrix feels content leaving them in peace.
A/N: It's Ven's birthday today so here's a chapter for her ! c: Maybe I'll update again this month, maybe not, who knows :0 Also y'all have probably seen everyone's Careertober fics going around (thanks SunnyJustice for the prompts!) well I've been drawing mine ! They're on my tumblr, darthnell :D See you guys when I see you !
- Nell