into the briar patch | bellamy & olete | day one

[d7f amber bosch 🌿 tris]

There are places where it is unwise to tread. Bellamy knows this all too well. He is also aware that no one worth remembering ever paid attention to the warning signs. The only way to conquer the unknown is to give yourself willingly to it, to step into the vanishing cabinet and wait patiently for the magician's cue. Disappearing doesn't frighten him as much as being forgotten does.

Here he enters the dark and eerie woods with reckless abandon. Eyes and skin glowing like a ray of sunlight trapped inside a glass jar. He can't help but to wonder how long his warmth can survive here. This is no domain of his, boy haloed by the setting sun. His cape sweeps along the ground, summoning a swirl of dead, scarlet leaves in his wake.

He had been on his way back to his alliance's base camp, to Larissa and Perry waiting patiently on him to carry more of their things no doubt, when a flash of dark hair caught his curious gaze. Even from the side of her retreating face, Bellamy recognizes the tribute from Nine, Olete. She moves off in the opposite direction, and he recalls catching glimpses of her during their time training in the Capitol. Despite himself, he never approached her, only looking on in quiet appreciation and wonder.

Now, alone in the diseased forest, he looks to his intrigue like a beacon fading in the night. Where can she possibly guide him that he cannot already go? When he looks to the bleeding horizon, he understands only one of them will live to cross to the other side of it, and not being allies only increases the risk that one day they might meet as enemies. Strangers with shining eyes and iron blades. This is not what Bellamy wants.

"Olete?" When he calls her name, he says it like an old friend. Voice bright and calm; a spiderweb sparkling with dewdrops clinging to the silk threads. "My name is Bellamy." He closes the distance between them with careful, languid strides. Even in the most frightening of places, there are deals just waiting to be struck. His eyes brighten with a flare of pink, a playful smirk playing on his lips. "I know this is the worst place to make friends, but if you're looking for a distraction and an excuse to stop running, look no further."

Spreading out his arms, he poses dramatically, the darkness eating at the edges of his glowing silhouette. "And besides, I can only imagine these woods are not a place to explore on your own. If you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."

{ collects items }

[ines izar d11a 🖤 cait]

 


Little sparrow, the world is not kind. Olete’s seen the underbelly of District life – thought that dingy alleyways and shady deals gone astray was the worst of what the world had to offer – but now she’s learning the truth. She thought she knew the cruelty of humanity and what desperation could do to a tortured soul seeking answers. But five minutes in the Bloodbath had been long enough to see over to the other side – a new and rabid kind of desperation, so different to home. She should have anticipated it better, the ruthlessness of kids with weapons shoved into their hands. Maybe she would have if she hadn’t spent so long digging up dirt on the competition. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, embracing the familiarity of her life back home.

She wishes she’d listened to her parents a little harder, held on to the innocence a little longer, just so she could say they didn’t feel like strangers. If only she’d known how dire things would become. Maybe then she would have been a better daughter, wouldn’t have strained so hard to break free of the chrome-covered chains of her well-rounded life. But even now, as she races through the forest, keeping to the shadows she’s grown up within, she knows with a sick and twisted certainty that she could never be that girl – the perfect princess her parents always wanted.

If they were here, they would tell her to look out for herself. That solitude is strength – that nobody can hurt you when you only have yourself to trust. And so Olete does what she’s always done and directly defies the expectations that bang around in her head, echoes of eighteen wasted years. Already she’s helped Krueger escape the Bloodbath, holding tightly to his arm to try and stop the blood flowing out of the open wounds. She’s propped him next to a particularly thick tree trunk and volunteered herself to go and find anything of healing use, insisting he preserve his energy, promising to be back soon. Helping people had always come easily to Olete, even when her methods were less than conventional. Desperate to keep her promise – the one thing she’s always been good at – she feels the most at home she’s been since this whole nightmare erupted.

“Olete?”

She freezes, heart leaping into her throat and getting caught there like a cough lozenge sticking to the mucosa. She weighs her options rapidly: she could run, but keeping her back to the enemy didn’t seem like a clever idea; and besides the voice sounded void of any urgency, so it was unlikely this was an ambush. Furthermore, why would they have said anything at all? Wouldn’t the element of surprise prove to be the wisest route to take, if the stranger was in fact intent on killing her off?

All of this unfolds in Olete’s frazzled, timid mind in about three seconds flat, but there’s no time to ponder on her revelations, because the boy continues to speak. The decision to stay is made for her, and Olete finally turns at that, not willing to let any more choices be decided on her behalf.

Her eyes gleam as they meet Bellamy Bravina’s, gold on gold. The threads of ivy crawling up her arms seem to glow under his gaze, and when she looks down at her arms, the colours that were once there – emerald green and indigo, like the forest floor underfoot – have lightened to a honey-brown hue and a tinge of pink, matching the exact pigment of Bellamy’s. It’s like calling to like: essences communicating, sighing with familiarity. It’s almost enough to make her feel safe. But she’s not so stupid.

It would have been negligent of her to not have done her research. Bellamy Bravina. District Five’s Golden Boy. Exy Champion. Younger brother to Beau Bravina. The titles don’t seem to end, and Olete wonders what it must be like to be a somebody. She supposes she’ll never know.

She sees two ways this can go. One: she could say nothing, or give a short, sweet reply and let him down gently, turn around slowly and be on her way back to Krueger. One stupid boy in her life was more than enough, she figured.

Or two: she could make a deal with him. The offer is too tempting, he’s right there, practically begging to play with her.

And oh, if she doesn’t love a game.

“Does that little trick work for you back in Five? Is that how you get all the guys and girls to worship you? You say a few pretty words and people come rushing? Be original.” She rolls her eyes as he takes purposeful steps towards her, the glint in his stare all the more prominent up close. It’s not the first time she’s come up against a man trying to intimidate her; today wouldn’t be the day she decided to back down.

“What exactly is it you’re offering, Bellamy?”

She could save him – she could shut this down and leave before he said something he couldn’t take back. Keep the slate clean, leave no debts to be paid to her, and that in itself was a favour that deserved to be repaid. But old habits die hard. And the truth of the matter was this: whatever he could do, she could do better.

She took a step of her own, daring him to try.

GRIFFIN

[collects items]

[d7f amber bosch 🌿 tris]

Olete, to her credit, seems to be no stranger to things that go bump in the night.

She watches him with a calm and collected gaze, standing eerily still, like water masquerading as glass. Forever the boy who will walk into a space with the goal of leaving some semblance of himself behind, Bellamy cannot resist the urge to cause ripples along her surface. If a person is not changed by knowing him, then what is his purpose of entering their life in the first place? His mind has always worked like this, as long as he can remember, thorns grown so thick that it is impossible to see the roses anymore.

What can you offer him? and more sincerely, a hushed whisper beneath the dry wind, How will you worship him?

That's the thing about trying to become a deity at eighteen. He barely knows the world, and yet he expects it to fold beneath his fingers, to bend to the tilt of his jaw and the curve of his coy smile. A long time ago, he decided that he wanted to be adored, and a longer time still, he convinced himself that his self-love should be tied to that adoration. Like some ancient being longing to be believed in, a creature in the woods that no longer wants to be a memory — an omen, a shadow.

If this girl wishes to give him a shape, she may choose freely.

The dying traces of light cling to his skin and hair, eyes glinting sea glass green as curiosity grips him, trailing his gaze along her skin and the vines that snake around her arms. The greenery comes to life with the hue of him, warm amber and floral pink. He wonders if this is some special ability of hers, to take the essence of others into herself, or if perhaps this meeting in particular is just that fated. There's a chance that even she doesn't know the answer to that question.

He is not unwilling to use this fact to his advantage. Bellamy quiets his smirk to a soft grin as she dares to take a step of her own forward, further closing the distance between them. He cannot hide his excitement as his pupils shift to sun bright yellow, sinking back down to their normal honey brown once the feeling subsides. Kaleidoscope in the flesh, an illusion unraveling, perhaps it's dangerous to stare at him for too long.

So why does he display such beautiful colors?

“Does that little trick work for you back in Five? Is that how you get all the guys and girls to worship you? You say a few pretty words and people come rushing? Be original.” This makes him laugh, but it is a warm and gentle sound, a bell ringing in the quiet of the night. His pale skin flushes with color, his tall stature causing him to tip his chin downward to gaze at her more closely, his cape still fluttering in the breeze. He does all of these things with intention, and steadiness, ensnaring her eyes with his own.

Collector staring longingly at treasure.

"Is that what you take me for?" He chuckles lightly, diverting his gaze just long enough to glance at the forest floor and rub the back of his neck sheepishly. "Actually, I prefer to make my friends the old fashioned way. Stick around if you like me, or go your own way if you don't." He looks back up, daring her to trust his soft, playful tone. "Maybe all I want is a friend to explore the scary woods with. It doesn't need to be anything more than that."

A beat passes. He takes just one step closer. All his weapons are concealed save for his shining, bright smile. "Did you have something else in mind, Olete? You will find I can be easily persuaded."

They counter each other question for question. Their own private kind of battle.

"What exactly is it you're offering, Bellamy?" Now, at this, his eyes deepen to a dark shade of gold, glittering beneath the heaviness of his eyelashes. One thing to be aware of: there is no form he is unwilling to take if it gets him closer to his goals. His ambition looks like debauchery, hedonist stepping into the field of flowers and curling a finger to beckon anyone who might be willing to follow. Breathe in the scent too deeply, and you might just lose your own free will. When he finally answers, his tone is low, warm and earthen. Moss creeping over all that stands in his path, begging it not to go far from him.

"Name your desire, Olete."

[ines izar d11a 🖤 cait]

Who is Bellamy Bravina?

Bellamy is a chameleon.

He’s a prince who’s never been told no. He’s a soul raised on curiosity, seeking out answers to questions he has no right in knowing, and Olete respects him for that. She has a burning desire to reveal the world to itself; he’s intent on playing each and every role that will make the world reveal itself to him.

He’s also a boy who sees a higher purpose for himself. This, to Olete, is a dangerous trait. She’s seen the best and the worst of the world, spent hours cataloguing every interaction and curating a textbook on character profiles. What she’s learned is that mortals who raise themselves to the status of deity have too far to fall. They believe they are invincible, and that’s when they are torn apart.

But Bellamy is not a fool. Olete sees the glint in his eyes and knows he is much smarter than her usual clientele in Nine. So she stays on the highest of red alerts as he stands before her, watching. Waiting to prod at her surface and dig deeper to feed his sociotropic soul. She feels the way his aura shifts, watches his eyes change colour as he rises to the challenge that is penetrating the walls she’s put up against the world. It’s not an impossible task; one wayward touch is all it would take for her to crumble, she’s not as strong as she thinks she is.

She forces herself to stand steady to stop from giving herself away. Tries to mimic Bellamy’s certain stance, but she knows she’s too wary. Tries to smirk in the all-knowing way he does, but she knows she’s too rigid, that her mouth doesn’t hold true. She’s losing the battle.

Olete hated losing.

And so she combats his upper hand in the only way she knows how: she reads him. Decides that giving in isn’t giving up, and settles on giving him what he wants. It’s as clear as Capitol billboards and city lights shooting across the sky, lighting up his face – he wants to play.

She gives herself up as his toy.

“Maybe all I want is a friend to explore the scary woods with. It doesn't need to be anything more than that.”

She feels the power pass from his hands into her own, but it’s just an illusion. Free will and power, none of it is real in here. Each of them thinks they have the upper end, in this wayward game of chess they’re playing, but all they have is playing pretend.

“Surely you have enough friends already, a charming boy like you. Whatever would you need little old me for?”

The root of the problem, she realises, is that she’s jealous of him. His certainty. His nonchalance. And she is so tired of being so alone. She wants to trust him, this boy who shares some golden thread of familiarity with her heart, even if she can’t pinpoint what exactly it is that keeps her rooted to this clearing, watching Bellamy take yet another step towards her.

She desperately tries to assess the situation, even as she feels it slipping away from her. Struggles to weigh the pros and cons. She wonders how far she would go, just to get away from the sense of inadequacy that’s begun to creep in, in the presence of someone so sure of their self.

“Name your desire, Olete.”

All she’s ever wanted was to be more. Wasn’t that what had led her into the streets of Nine with whispered words and folded notes and boxes wrapped in black ribbons? But how do you begin to articulate something as vast as the universe itself?

She uses the hardness, holding tight to it like it’s the hilt of the sword she still can’t look at. Lets it shape her into something braver than she is.

“Distract me. I want to be bigger than all of this.”

Her mind flashes to an alley, a boy, a promise, a deal gone wrong, secrets upon secrets upon secrets, flushed warmth and bitter cold sweeping through her bones. The threads of her old life entangle with the fresh fibres of the new world; she leans into the moment.

GRIFFIN