twist of fate { nessa v emerson } day 6

[k!ah]

N E S S A
G A R N E R

The sheet was still pulled tight against my brothers face. I stare up at him, one hand curled around my machetes handle, the other hanging loosely at my side. This was the first time I had come here since that first day. Coming here was too difficult, everything smelled like home, and the picture of Jimmy and Jill on Jimmy's bedside table had nearly been enough to send me into a weeping mess on the floor beside his bed. Turning away from Jimmy's old sleeping quarters I had approached Flynn's statue that had creeped me the fuck out on night one.

I stare for a moment longer before I shrug off my pack and lean my machete against it. Then I reach for the sheet that I had slung over Flynn's face and pull it free. Flynn's face is revealed almost instantly and the ache in my chest that radiates through me is strong enough to have my hand clamping over my heart. I stare up at my brother, memorising the lines of his metallic face. I was still so mad at him, and I couldn't help but blame him for me being here, but despite that, despite the hurt and the anger and the frustration their was also love and grief and longing- longing to see him, to see my home and to feel safe.

Suddenly my vision is blurring as my eyes begin to burn. Instantly I wipe at my face, forcing the tears away. "I didn't believe you, you know," I tell him, casting my mind back to the memory of us in the training center. Do you think I really have a chance? Tell me the truth, I had asked him, so scared that he would have told me right then and there that I was so fucking screwed. Yes. You’re definitely tougher than I was, still now, he had said.

"I'm still not sure that I do," I say with a sigh, running a hand through my dirty hair. "But..." my voice trails off as I collect my thoughts. "I want to believe you. And... And I want to come home," the tears fall more freely now and I don't bother to wipe them away. "But... But I am so scared, Flynn." I am so scared that I won't make it. That even if I do I won't be the same girl who walked in here. "I'm going to do my best," I promise as I turn from him picking up my bag and clutching my machete tight in my hand.

Slipping into the depths of the Training center I pull open the door to the Surveillance control room before taking a seat at one of the chairs behind the computers. On the screen I watched as the remaining handful of tributes trekked through the halls, hands tightly holding weapons. For a moment I follow Arcadia and with a heavy heart I pray to Ripred that I never see her again because I knew that the next time she saw me, she would kill me. Or I her.

I am still watching Arcadia when I notice movement at the corner of the screen that showed me footage of the mechanical room. "shoot," I curse, leaping from my chair I slip behind one of the desks. Someone was coming. I hold my machete in my hand between me and the desk and the door that was still firmly locked in place-

The door handle rattles. "Damnit," I curse again, my heart beginning to race.

The door flies open and standing before me is Emerson Emberstatt.

"You've got to be kidding me," I mumble under my breath before I half step out from where I was hiding. "Our mentors are going to fucking love this," I declare, tilting my head to the side slightly to study him. He was alone. That was good, right?

[ doesn't attack ]

[lucia valentine {d8} 🔹 tris]

There is nothing left but this.

For days now, he has danced with the inevitable fate of becoming a murderer. Watching your friends die in succession will do that to a person — you start to become numb to all the blood. When he looks down at his hands, at his torn clothes, it is everywhere. Little traces of Mac, Wolf, and Jack clinging to him; and all the strangers he had attempted and failed to kill.

If you ask Emerson, he thought he had been ready for vengeance after watching Mac die. All those days ago.

Yet, at every opportunity to seek some form of justice for his fallen allies, he has instead fallen short. He stumbles, misses the critical strike, hesitates. Emerson has painted his enemies into monsters worth defeating; like the girl from One who steps out of shadows, and the boy from Two with the silver tongue forged into an axe. He has spoken so boldly of his desire to make them all pay, but he has collected none of the debt.

To be someone who wants so badly to play the hero, he feels more like a damsel in the stories he read as a child. Mac, Jack, and Wolf were always the protectors — and as hard as he tried to step in the way, to rewrite fate, to redirect the attention of their foes to him, he failed each time. Now, all his knights are gone, and he wanders the quiet halls in his lonesome. Arlo shared his food with the boy, and a lucky sponsorship donation granted him a beverage to quench his thirst. But it's visible that this experience has begun to wear on him.

There are bags under his eyes, and his cheeks are shallow from lack of nutrition. His bloodstained, ripped sweater hangs loosely from his torso, a collarbone peeking out from the stretched collar. His feet are bare, lounge pants pooling against the floor. And in his grasp, his glaive drags along the tiles. Emerson has fought as much as he has lost, and he has done all he can to convince himself that he is ready for this final sacrifice. He still remembers what he swore to his father he would not hesitate to do if it meant returning home.

He has counted the faces. There are only eight of them left in this terrible place.

And now absent of saviors, but still feeling the weight of them deep in his heart, he knows now that all of this goes beyond simply avenging a friend. There are no villains, there are no heroes, and this is not a story. It is real life, and they are real people, and every single person who has made it this far wants the exact same thing as him. He must be selfish enough to take the crown before they can reach for it. This has nothing to do with a birthright. He's certain he's not the most capable fighter still standing in the building.

Emerson wants to go home, and he cannot afford to blur into the background anymore.

He rattles the doorknob to the security footage room without considering who he might warn of his presence. This late into the Games, he knows that every chance meeting will become a bloody one. Whoever might be waiting inside, whatever their intentions might be, he knows that he must be on the offensive. He swings the door open with a thud, and for a moment, he is alone with the unbearable heat, the static, and the eerie glow of the flickering screens casting shadows across his skin.

And then she reveals herself, and his heart flutters. "Our mentors are going to fucking love this." He glances to see Nessa Garner rising from behind the false security of a desk, moving further into the space until they are both staring directly at one another. She is the sister of a victor, and he is the grandchild of one. The irony of their meeting is not lost on him, and he is certain that more strings than those of fate have been pulled to make this happen. It's one thing to know you must do whatever you can to kill a person, but it's another to know the whole world will be watching as you do it.

"I promised my father, and my grandparents, that I would do what it takes to survive." Pretending that there is some other narrative than the truth doesn't seem right to him. He doesn't want to pretend like he doesn't want to do this; if he is going to aim his blade at her, then he has to own that choice. Waxing poetic and feigning remorse won't make this easier for either of them, but nothing in his voice hints to cruelty. He is soft spoken, but firm. The way he adjusts his weapon will tell her all she needs to know of his intentions. One of them must die, and the other must continue a legacy.

Let the compass point towards him.

"What did you promise Flynn?"

And let his blade end this quickly.

emerson attacks nessa ; glaive
s3vcEQ7DPUglaive
miss

accuracy | day six

glaive
3.5

glaive·glaive

[k!ah]

N E S S A
G A R N E R

His eyes burn into mine as we study each other. I take in the way the shadows seemed to linger the longest under his eyes. In his eyes dance more shadows, and there was a hardness to them that hadn't been there the first time they meet. Or maybe it had and I just hadn't noticed because I had been thoroughly distracted by the slaughter of my cousin. My lips tighten into a thin line at the thought, but I force myself to push the thoughts away. They would not be useful right now.

There is no cruelty laced into his words when he speaks, no harshness, just the soft truth of our unfortunate situation. "I promised my father, and my grandparents, that I would do what it takes to survive." Grandchild of a victor I had the feeling that our meeting was more than just a turn of unlucky timing. Not to mention my brother was currently bumping butts with Districts 10's most recent victor. No, there was more to our meeting- was it punishment? To show our respective Districts just how powerful the Capitol? After all, forcing the youngest and probably the most recognisable tributes these games to fight each other to the death sent an obvious message, and the ice cold cruelty of it screamed Capitol Plotting.

"What did you promise Flynn?"

A frown pulls together my brows slightly, what had I promised Flynn? I had promised him "to come home." But more importantly, the silent vow that I had promised myself was to stop him from breaking. An empty vow that I had no doubt I would break. "I promised him that I would come home," I say more confidently, my hand squeezing tighter around my machete. There was something in Emersons eyes that made me realise that he too had made similar promises and that because of those vows, what happened here, now, would be nothing personal.

A moment later Emerson is shifting position and instantly I snap to attention, just in time, because without hesitation Emerson swings his blade towards my throat. Shit, breath hitching, I jump to the side to avoid the brunt go his attack. My hips gets caught on the corner of one of the desks and a grunt of pain escapes my lips as I scramble around the desk in a last minute attempt to put something, anything between us.

I hadn't had to do this before, face someone alone, and without realising it straight away I wait for Arcadia, or Antigone, or even Jimmy to step up beside me with their weapons raised in protection. But I am alone. A small surge of panic rushes through me as Emerson stands before me. He is taller than me, I notice almost instantly, fighting the urge to step further away from him. And he looks at me with his mouth pulled into a hard tight line. I find myself wondering if similar emotions and thoughts are rushing through him.

"I have one request," I ask him quietly, shifting my machete so that when I pulled out my small pouch of poisonous plants it was easy to run it along the blades sharp edge. I push the pouch back into my pocket as my gaze sweeps over his blade lightly coated in my blood before landing on his face. It was peculiar, when I looked at him I didn't see him as the enemy, not in the same way I had seen Jack, not in the same way I had cursed Roe and Mateo.

"Don't let me die alone," a strange request to ask my potential murderer, to ask him to sit with me as I died. But I meant it all the same. I didn't want to die alone, just like I had refused to allow Marik to die alone, to die for me. Though, by some sort of miracle he had lived- but for how long? Until this morning I had thought that Arcadia would be the one to hold me as I died, similar to the way she had cradled Antigone's so tightly to her chest. Dying was already a frightful thought, but to be truely and completely alone? that was utterly terrifying. 

[coats weapon in poison using poison (poisonous plant) [1/3]]
[attacks Emerson with machete]
OEvH0HebF1sword
[ 8 + 1 blades + 1 poison ]

sword

[lucia valentine {d8} 🔹 tris]

The cruelest part is knowing she deserves a better life than this.

Even now, his glaive narrowly missing her throat, her machete now aimed at his chest — Emerson does not see Nessa Garner as a monster. She’s as much a mirror reflection as she is an enemy. A scared kid in over her head, both eerily familiar with their shared fate but not at all prepared to face it. Watching your relatives live and die in the arena does nothing to help you when you find yourself standing in their place.

The only choice is to move forward, or to go nowhere at all.

Does she feel the presence of the ghosts behind her, too? The echo of the pleas of their victor relatives begging sponsors to keep them alive? Here, in this room, that all feels so small and distant. Hope, wealth, influence — none of that matters. Either his blade will fell her where she stands, or hers will sever him from this world.

Maybe it’ll be peaceful. Maybe if he is destined to die, he should thank his lucky stars that his soul will be in her gentle hands. There are worse ways to go, and he has seen them play out behind a television screen throughout the years.

Now the scene has been set once more, and they’re playing the starring roles.

When she speaks, he listens. His lips twist into a frown, sadness and empathy shining in his eyes. Being asked to stay with the person you’re trying to kill is an experience he could go without — but he’s here, and his heart is already broken, so what more is there to lose? “Don’t let me die alone.”

He stayed with Mac until his eyelids shut with the setting of the sun. He stayed with Jack until his strong hands finally let go of the thread connecting him to the world. He stayed with Wolf until her soul pulled itself from her body and wrapped around him like a suit of armor. If Nessa wants him to hold her hand in her final moments, he will not flinch. He will not deny her mercy.

“If you can’t keep your promise, you have my word that I’ll stay.” He sighs, the weight of the emotions moving through him like a tidal wave. “I could sing to you, if you like music. A lullaby.” For Nessa Garner, let death come softly like falling asleep.

They move into their positions, neither of them letting their gentleness win out in favor of their survival instinct. This is in their blood. They have studied this script all their lives, and now they know all the lines by heart. “And if I can’t make it home, please hold my hand. If I have to die, I don't want to go afraid.”

Behind them, on the screens playing security footage, a familiar tragedy is echoing. The flickering carnage haloes them in a white, static glow. Nessa lashes out with her machete, a swift strike, and Emerson tries to lurch to the side as he sends his glaive slicing outwards in return.

Let his strength and softness become one.

emerson attacks nessa ; glaive
ymCVSqLkLHglaive
8.5

self-defense
3-8

glaive·3-8

[k!ah]

N E S S A
G A R N E R

At first, for the briefest of moments, I think that Emerson might reject my request. I watch as emotions tear across his face. But finally he nods, sighing with the weight of his emotions as he agrees to my terms. I cant help but allow the tension in my shoulder to release ever so slightly. There was something disturbingly twisted about my request, and I was pleasantly aware that the Capitol, the Gamemakers, might not be very pleased with us in this very moment.

They would have expected us to rip each others throat out. They would have expected us to spit insults, to create a gruesome slaughter that could be replayed in the future as a reminder of what happens when they are disappointed-

“I could sing to you, if you like music. A lullaby.”

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Emersons voice as he continues on and for a moment I feel my eyes begin to burn as the weight of his words settle onto my shoulder like a comforting embrace. The words ate away at the terror that had begun to linger in my bones. All thought about the Capitol vanish and a small, sad, smile tugs up the corners of my lips.

"I... I think that I'd like that," I whisper, my thoughts drifting to a fond memory of my mother cradling me close to her chest as she ran long fingers through my hair, her voice a gentle whisper in my ear as she sung me to sleep after a nightmare had sent me running to her room. It had been one of the last times that she had held me like that, and despite the gaping hole the memory- no, she- left in my heart, I cling to to the thoughts, desperately grasping at the feeling of her fingers in my hair, her body warm and solid and safe against my own.

“And if I can’t make it home, please hold my hand. If I have to die, I don't want to go afraid.”

"Of course," I say instantly, taking one tentative step closer to him as I nod in earnest. My sad little smile turns into an grin, "though I don't think you would want my singing to be the last thing you hear." My nose scrunches up a little, "Flynn and Dorothy have said on more than one occasion that they would rather the sound of nails being dragged down a chalkboard." The amusement lights up my face for another moment before it shifts back to something more serious.

"But I promise you, I will hold your hand until the very end."

I aim my machete towards his chest, at the heart I knew would be beating too fast, just as he levels his glaive at me. We don't hesitate, not anymore, and has my machete is knocked away from the path to his heart, his blade runs down the edge of my cheek, the one that had been kissed by the flames the day before, and I feel it split through my skin as something warm and sticky begins to run down my neck.

[coats weapon in poison using poison (poisonous plant) [2/3]]
[attacks Emerson with machete]
TKmNFZn4mpsword
[ 9.5 +1 blades + 1 poison ]

sd
3-8

sword·3-8

[lucia valentine {d8} 🔹 tris]

He reaches desperately for life — but her blade cuts across his forearm like a lightning bolt. Instant agony, uncaring for the fear that rises inside his heart. The hurt comes quickly like a thunder clap. It echoes like the crescendo of rain pounding against the ground. The brevity of this moment can only exist in a metaphor. Not even words can do it justice.

A television screen flickers as a boy and a girl attempt to tear each other limb from limb.

Here.

There.

Everywhere.

Lineage means nothing here. Not in this battle, this clash of legacies in the process of unraveling. What does the tapestry look like once all the threads have untangled themselves? Do the sacrifices of their family members look like anything at all? They exist in empty space, suspended between grief and pride and the inability to let go. The dry heat is as unbearable as it has always been, but he doesn't let the exhaustion show.

Breathe in, breathe out — ignore the fact that it feels like barbed wire has wrapped around your soul.

"I think I'd like that." The possibility of death blossoms like a pale flower, unease and dread unfolding. But the scent of hope is still so present. She holds fast to her machete, and he clings to his glaive like it is a lifeline. Despite the kindness in their voices, they are still so sharp in their own way. His body radiates with the ache of the cuts that have been freshly opened across his skin, and he can feel the hot stickiness of his still bleeding wounds clinging to his sweater. If he bleeds out, will that not be as scary?

Will it come quickly? Will it feel like dreaming?

"Though I don't think you would want my singing to be the last thing you hear." He smiles at that, listening to her go through her memories. He will not rob her of the mercy of remembering. If today is his last day, he will be thinking of his family, too. For a brief moment, they're just two strangers smiling at one another, a glimpse of amusement dancing in their eyes.

"Everybody's got their own song. It's just a matter of finding your voice." In another world, another lifetime, they could be two friends connecting for the first time. He could be teaching her how to play the guitar, how to hold a steady note. She could be smiling gently, a warm presence like a crackling fire in an old, dark house. Despite the fear and adrenaline coursing through him, Nessa makes Emerson less afraid just by being here.

"I promise you, I will hold your hand until the very end."

The scene has to shift again. The weapons have to be drawn.

"And I'll sing every song I know, until I'm certain you're gone."

On the offensive once more, her blade cuts into him, a deep gash that causes him to yelp in pain. But they are little giants, fighting with every ounce of strength they have left. He takes the brunt of her hit, pivots on his foot and tries to black out the feeling of his skin tearing — and then he thrusts his glaive out, hoping to cut a vital artery, or hit an organ that will make her death fast and as painless as possible. It is true, depending on what happens here, he will mourn Nessa Garner for as long as he may live. Another ghost for the keeping.

He will murder her, and he will choose that grief willingly.

emerson attacks nessa ; glaive
I6V2sPAFm1glaive
3.5 + 0.5 vengeance

glaive

[k!ah]

N E S S A
G A R N E R

The agony that tears across his face as harsh as my blade has my stomach rolling and my heart aching. Instantly my eyes are drawn to the spot on his arm that had been torn open so brutally that blood rained down to the ground, that muscles and tendons had been ripped into so deep that the white of his bone was visible.

"Oh my god," I breathe, my chest rising and falling rapidly as my eyes are drawn back to his. They seared into me, flaring with agony. I swallow the apology that rises like a tidal wave in my throat. I couldn't- I wouldn't- apologise to him, not when it would be a partial lie.

"And I'll sing every song I know, until I'm certain you're gone," he promises me, his breath coming hard and ragged as he fights through the pain that I had no doubt threatened to overwhelm him.

He comes for me again, but I am prepared and I dance just out of reach, his blade skimming the surface of my arm hard enough for a small hiss of pain to slip past my lips. However my eyes don't leave his as I give my arm a small shake, as though I could throw off the sharp, burning pain, that had begun to radiate up my arm. I felt as though I needed to hold his gaze, almost in a way to remind him of the promises that we had laid out before us.

Or maybe it was simply because in his eyes I didn't see hate, or rage, or disgust, or bloodlust. How many eyes had I looked into over the past week who had looked at me exactly that way? I could so clearly see the rage in Jacks eyes, I could so clearly see the bloodlust in Roes, the unhinged terror in Mateos. In Emerson's I didn't see any of that. And maybe I should have, because then it might have made this so much easier.

Around us monitors flash with images from the present and the past and I was sure that one one screen would be Arcadia fighting for her life. And on another would be Flynn, his gun raised in the same way I raised my machete, fighting for a life I wasn't quite sure I deserved.

"Do you think..." my words drift off for a moment, and I frown slightly as I try to find my words. "Do you think that they would be proud of us?" Proud of the things that we had done to survive. "Do you think... Do you think that what we do in here- do you think we will be able to forgive ourselves?" I wasn't so sure that I wanted to know the answer, because I knew what it should be. No. I dont think I would ever be able to forgive myself.

[coats weapon in poison using poison (poisonous plant) [3/3]]
[attacks Emerson with machete]
ohKiCNraoWsword
[ 4.5 + 1 poison + 0.5 vengeance ]

sword

[lucia valentine {d8} 🔹 tris]

It's fascinating, how the human soul can reveal itself.

Terrified eyes staring into one another — ivory white bone peeking out from behind torn flesh. He is a damaged thing, and now more than he ever, he realizes just how highly the odds are stacked against him. The pain rolls through him like tremors through the earth, at times quiet and slow, and at other times it feels as if his whole skeleton might shake loose from his skin. He has to wonder how far it could run away from all this.

But he stands his ground, only hurt and sadness dancing in his expression. He is not angry, he is not hungry for carnage, he is just a lost kid who wants to go home to his own bedroom. To his family, and his pet, and the little things he hadn't been grateful enough for until they were taken from him. They always say you don't know what you have until you lose it, and now all Emerson can see in his hands is the hilt of this bloodstained weapon.

One thing he knows to be true is this: Nessa Garner does not deserve to die at fourteen. She is kind, humor dancing at the edges of her voice, a lightness to her that makes it seem that if she waved her arms maybe, just maybe, she could take off into the sky. Just the same as him, she holds fast, refusing to budge from her place in this world. The echo of her brother's crown glimmers gold above her head, or maybe it's just the screens flickering behind them. Maybe the blood loss is getting to him.

The other thing he knows to be true is this: regardless of the goodness of her heart, he must stop its beating.

(wip from here on out!! yesterday and today i work 11 hour shifts so trying to get this up before i head out <3)

She speaks, and of course he listens. When she positions to strike, he pushes through the agony and mirrors her. "I think they said it best, Nessa." For all the fire that burns inside him, he has no intention of hurting her with words. "They want us to come home. Pride has nothing to do with it." He prepares himself for the possibility that this could very well be the end, or a prelude.

"Listen to me: I forgive you." He pulls back his arm and prepares to strike. "However this ends."

emerson attacks nessa ; glaive
m3QvmBVBxqglaive
block + 1.0 vengeance

glaive

[k!ah]

N E S S A
G A R N E R

Even now, when the agony that consumed him was so clearly etched onto the features of his tight face, his words held no traces of cruelty. There was no coldness, no harshness in they way he spoke that made my heart pound faster and my fists clench tighter around the hilt of my blade. In the days leading up to here, to this position I was in right now, each strike against another had been fuelled with desperation, and each strike had felt wrong, even when it had felt right. Each strike had left me feeling as though a piece of my soul had be ripped away with each drop of blood that my blade encouraged.

Right now was no different.

No. Thats not quite right.

It was worse.

I didn't feel as though just a small piece of my very being was being ripped away, I felt as though each strike against Emerson greedily ate away at the ragged straps of what was left in me. And by the end, I wasn't sure what would be left.

"I think they said it best, Nessa. They want us to come home. Pride has nothing to do with it."

Of course pride had nothing to do with. Gods, how could it? Not when what we had to do in this wretched place was something so sinful and utterly disgusting.

Suddenly I felt nauseous, and I fight the urge to stagger away from Emerson, resisting the need to fold in on myself and heave the empty contents of my stomach onto the ground between us. For so many days I had tried to ignore every damned thing I had done in this place. I had used Antigone and Arcadia as distractions, full immersing myself into those relationships and clutching onto them with greedy hands to refuse to see what I had started to become.

I didn't want to see. I didn't want to know. but now that I was alone, my blade soaked in the blood of a boy who deserved so much more than whatever it is that I could provide him, I could hide from the things that I had done. Emerson didnt deserve to be here, and I sure as hell didnt deserve his kindness-

"Listen to me," his words cut through my thoughts as the back of my eyes begin to burn with the start of tears. "I forgive you."

Something like a strangled sob rises in my throat, and I fight to swallow it down.

I forgive you.

I can't stop the tears that begin to blur my vision, slipping down my cheek, through the blood and sweat that clung to my skin.

However this ends, I forgive you.

"I'm so s-sorry," I mange, my voice breaking. I couldn't hold the apology back any longer, even though I knew that I should. "You- You don't deserve this, I- this isn't how it should be for you." My voice shakes and I release the grip on my machete for a moment to wipe away the tears that ran down my face. I was a mess, and I was so so tired. Emotionally and physically I could feel myself slipping closer and closer to that point of breaking.

I forgive you.

"I forgive you too."

[attacks Emerson with machete]
K79QSW|_ilsword
[ Deep Gash on Left Bicep -- 8.0 damage +1 blades + 0.5 vengeance ]

sword

[lucia valentine {d8} 🔹 tris]

Is it because of empathy, pain, or fear? Perhaps this is a question that will go unanswered.

There are tears shining in Nessa's eyes. That same light begins to glisten in his own gaze, staring through the girl like a dagger cleaving through skin. Every breath, every tremble, feels like he is unraveling. He has never experienced hurt like this before, boy who cried when he would scrape his knees after crashing his bike as a child — now he can see the white of his bone beneath torn flesh, can feel the white hot pulse of ripped sinews racing up and down his body.

His every labored breath is like a hammer crashing down against his nerves.

But he does not lose his softness, even as he is shredded and whittled into a jagged thing. No amount of strikes from her machete can take that from him. He stands his ground, looking at her like she is a friend he is losing and not a foe he is facing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, behind all the agony, he knows that fate does not seem to be in his favor. Nessa seems hardly as damaged as himself, and with every passing second, he can feel his own swings growing weaker and weaker. The glaive feels impossibly heavy, a graceless thing.

So he opens his palm, and he allows it to clatter to the ground. For a brief, beautiful moment, he is just a boy crying without shame, staring at a sad girl who might very well be his end. She is apologetic, but she has not committed a crime. "This isn't how it should be for you." The most terrifying part is realizing he might never find out how it should have been. What new songs would he have sang, what new knowledge would he learn from his parents, how would his siblings look when they reach his age?

He does not want to be frozen in time, but an ending is an ending regardless of how quickly it arrives. If he can have one final mercy, let it be that the world lets him go gently, quietly, without scars. Let everyone he loves forgive themselves for a thing they do not need to be forgiven for; if he cannot, let them move on from this. "You don't deserve it either, Nessa." Unarmed, blood seeping through his sweater, his closes the distance between himself and his could-be killer. She forgives him. His own blood dripping from her blade does nothing to deter him from what he does next.

Opening his arms, knowing this might be the final chance he has to choose love over hate, he pulls a girl he met far too late in his young life into a hug. And he stays like that for a moment, his touch calm and cautious and comforting. He whispers in her ear, "I don't think I'm afraid anymore." Of course he is, but of all the fears Emerson could be forced to confront, this is the kindest of them all. He pulls away from her, stumbling back a few steps, kneeling down to his discarded bag and grabbing the hilt of the sword Wolf gifted him.

Pulling out the weapon, he stares into the reflective, frost coated blade that looks so much like the one his grandfather wielded in his own Games. His face looks so much like all the people he wants to go home to. Little reminders of the life he might be leaving behind. A tear rolls down his cheek, and he whispers a goodbye beneath his breath that no one else can hear. When he stands, he rolls back his shoulders, and he looks at Nessa with his jaw held high and all the determination of a victor's descendant blazing in his eyes.

No, he will not let go of this existence without a fight.

"Hold nothing back." He speaks to her as he speaks to himself; he draws back the sword and prepares to lunge. When he slashes outward, the presence of all his family members (both the ones he has lost and the ones he is losing) guides his hand. "It's time for this to end."

emerson attacks nessa ; mace's sword
vnJwBxOPvNsword
3.5 + 2.0 vengeance

sword

[k!ah]

N E S S A
G A R N E R

Before me Emerson allows his glaive to clatter to the ground, his tear filled eyes meeting mine. "You don't deserve it either, Nessa," he says quietly and for.a moment my shoulder begin to shake a little harder as I fight back another sob. It felt wrong for me to be the one falling apart when it was him who was bleeding into earth before us. But with each passing moment, each swipe of my blade, each kind word that slips past his lips I am slowing my ability to hold myself together and I slip a little further.

Slowly he closes the distance between us, tears falling down his cheek as he stares down at me. For a moment I freeze, my body going stiff as he gently wraps his arms around me, pulling me into an embrace. I forgot how to breathe, my body trembling in his hold. I feel his arms clench around me a little tighter before I feel his breath against my ear, "I don't think I'm afraid anymore."

This time I can't hold back the sob that pushes past my lips, the tears falling more freely as my own weapon slips from my fingers. So very carefully I wrap my arms around his body, careful to avoid the new scars that littered his skin. I felt his blood warm against my uniform, my skin, but I ignore as I lean into his embrace for just a moment, allowing myself to cry into his shoulder desperately fighting to regain control of my spiralling emotions.

Then he is pulling away, stumbling back as he leans down to pick up a new weapon. When he stands again I have managed to control my breathing enough that my chest raised and fell unevenly, the sobs had subsiding. He stands a little taller and instantly I know that he has not given up, refused to be defeated and I knew that I needed to do the same.

Sniffling I reach down for my machete, fingers loosely wrapped around the handle as he speaks. "Hold nothing back," he commands and I feel myself nodding as I pull back my own shoulders before quickly wiping away the tears that still lingered on my cheeks. "It's time for this to end." Yes, it was time for this to end. It was time for me to finish this, to end the pain that tore through his body like a wildfire raging through a forrest.

He moves towards me, his sword raised and I manage to block it, cursing under my breath as his blade nicks my biceps causing a searing shot of pain to piece my arm. "No holding back," I promise him as I change my position from defensive to offensive. "Don't be afraid," I murmur, to myself, to him, as I lung, swinging my blade towards his chest. "No more pain."

[attacks Emerson with machete]
7TneETRdqfsword
[ Shallow Cut on Right Shoulder -- 3.5 damage ]

sword

[lucia valentine {d8} 🔹 tris]

"No more pain."

Two souls collide into one another. A girl and a boy with tears in their eyes, blades in their hands, scorching like comets across a starless sky. Of course, there is pain. Even if he is more wounded than her, Emerson knows that the cuts he has drawn across Nessa's skin must ache, and still, he feels the dizziness that comes with the sheer amount of blood he has lost. He is the last leaf clinging to the branch at the close of autumn.

The merciful fact that they're both still standing is almost enough to calm him.

The cruel fact that only one of them will remain standing is a blow neither will recover from.

Her machete slices into him as his sword makes a clean sweep across her bicep, the echo of their embrace lingering on his skin as the hurt takes the place of love. He imagines his mother and father watching the television screen, the panicked cries of his younger siblings, the way so many more worlds than just his own are crumbling as they speak. He is as rational as he is soft — if he does not stab her cleanly through the heart, Emerson knows that Nessa will finish him within a matter of moments.

If the story ends here, what does he have to show for this young, incomplete life?

In flashes, rays of summer sunlight through sprawling trees, he remembers the beautiful things slipping from his grasp. A father that protected and cherished him all his life, a mother and a bond he might not live to mend, a brother and sister he would give anything to hold in his arms just one last time. Aunt Reggie smiling on her front porch, his grandfather holding him on a rocking chair, regaling an old story. Saffron smiles from the open window, Quinn is shouting something in the distance. His grandmother calls in the evening, wishes him well and good.

He meets two boys named Machiavelli and Jackson, and a girl named Wolf. And he loves them, and he loses them, and even still their ghosts loom over his shoulder. Either he joins them, or Nessa does. But in some quiet way, boy staring directly at the contents of his final chapter, he has learned that death is not the absence of a thing. Even buried, even vanished, some essence of him will remain.

Let him be the rain pitter pattering on the rooftop in spring.

Let him be the wild horse racing across a scarlet horizon.

Let him be the warm light that turns his sister's hair to fire.

Let him be his brother's favorite color in all the masterpieces he will make.

Let his laughter and his songs and his joy be the things his parents remember the most.

Inhaling a breath, holding it in like it might be his very last, he aims his sword at a girl who does not deserve the very fate he is trying so desperately to crawl away from. This is the flutter of curtains falling. This is the final clap of thunder before the storm ceases. This is the end of a boy, or a girl, who can never truly be ended. This is the close. He exhales, and he gives himself the good grace of knowing it is okay to finally let go. Of fear, of hate, of anything that will not carry him forward from this moment.

"'Til the very end, Nessa Garner."

If fate is smiling upon him, then let him be the victor.

"I'll see you there."

emerson attacks nessa ; mace's sword
CFiEfQzSIHsword
shallow cut on back - 4.0

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[k!ah]

N E S S A
G A R N E R

I aimed at his heart, but he dances away my machetes fatal strike, clashing into his shoulder as he pushes away from my blade, refusing to fold. Regaining my balance I study him, noting the paleness of his face that was borderline grey as his blood was drained from his body. As I watched him I half expected his trembling knees to collapse beneath him, but he holds his shoulders back, his chin high as his chest rises and falls with uneven and ragged breathes.

My eyes trail down the length of his arm, to the gash that had torn into his flesh so deep that his bone was visible, white against the harshness of his blood. I swallow sharp, averting my gaze, only to find the gash that ripped open the skin of his bicep. Blood soaked the sleeve of his uniform turning the material black. I once again drop my gaze and find the pools of blood that had begun to gather around his feet and my hand tightens on my machete.

He was dying- no. That was not correct. He wasn't just simply dying, I was killing him. I was murdering him. His blood coated my fingers, soaked into the my uniform, into my skin. I was killing him. I was going to kill him and I didn't know how I would come back from this. I forgive you, his words brush against my shoulders, wrap around my body mimicking his embrace, stopping my spatially thoughts until I can focus on nothing but those three words.

I forgive you.

I cling to the words like a lifeline, digging my fingers in until they were anchored to my heart.

That was how I was going to make it through this. He was how I was going to make it through this, as sick and as twisted as that realisation was. He was why I was slipping, but the reason I would stay grounded.

I forgive you, however this ends,

My eyes flutter closed for a moment as as I breathe deeply, controlling the wild surge of emotions that rush through me. When I open my eyes again they meet with Emersons and I watch as they seem to lighten ever so slightly. I don't think I am afraid anymore, he had said and as I watched him I felt the truth in his words. He wasn't afraid. And even though it appears as though he accepted the future that was so quickly ending for him, I knew that he was not ready to fully resign to that fate.

He would fight until his body failed him.

"'Til the very end, Nessa Garner," he said as he moved forward, angling his sword towards me. "I'll see you there."

And he would. Not today, but maybe in a day, or maybe in a year, or maybe even in a lifetime. But I would see him again.

"Yes," I breathed, twisting away from his blade. "I have no doubt that I will see you again Emerson Emberstatt." I pause, rolling my shoulders ever so slightly as I aimed my own machete, praying to the gods that this would be the strike to end it, and maybe that was selfish, because as much as I wanted to stop this torture that he was enduring at my hand... I wasn't sure how much longer I would be able to be the one to carry out this torture until it truly and completely broke me.

"You aren't alone, you won't be alone, not for one moment," I vow, my blade lifting. "I will be here until the end. I will be here," I breath as I step towards him. "until the very last breathe, and more, I promise."

[attacks Emerson with machete]
qu5R4u2Fjisword
[ block ]

accuracy
sword
[ 9 ]

sword·sword

[lucia valentine {d8} 🔹 tris]

"You aren't alone, you won't be alone, not for one moment."

The clang of her blade clashing against his steel vest reverberates through his very soul. For a brief, suspended moment, he is propelled through time. He is watching the sun sink into a bleeding horizon, holding Mac's hand. The light in Jack's eyes is fading as Emerson strokes his fingers through the boy's scarlet hair. Wolf makes her home inside his heart as she robbed of the possibility of returning to her own. In the static flash of the screens playing security footage behind them, he is reminded of watching his relatives endure this very same trauma. Then a child, still a child, perhaps forever frozen in this unending tragedy.

A gold, blood-soaked coin spins on a thin sheet of ice. He does not know on which side it will land.

This doesn't feel like a nightmare anymore, so much as it feels like an awakening. "I will be here until the very last breath, and more, I promise." With his bones and flesh and blood on full display, he has no shame in the tears that drip freely down his cheeks. He is either dying by the hands of one of the kindest girls he has ever met, or he is going to chance fate and take the life of a person who has clearly won this fight. Luck and misfortune press against his throat, command him to kneel, and yet he remains on his feet.

All the pain just feels like an echo now. If he is already unraveling, what harm will a few steps further do to him? Even if he has begged this girl to stay with him, to hold his hand, he knows that he will not submit until he is robbed of the ability to continue standing. In his dying moments, with her fingers clasped around his own, maybe the delirium he will feel will make it easier to imagine all the other people he wants so badly to embrace. Their hands will be her hand. Through Nessa, perhaps he will have closure of a certain kind.

"I hope my breath is the last." He says this quietly, selfishly, softly. His grip tightens around the hilt of his grandfather's sword what might be the final time, and he smiles at Nessa with a trickle of blood trailing down his chin. Now, he is a boy without his armor, and the time has come to finally turn the page on this chapter of his life. He has regrets, and he has fears, and there is sadness flickering in his honey brown gaze. But even if he is greeted with blankness, a white sheet, an absence of an epilogue — he will accept it.

He has to.

All the most beautiful songs come to an end.

"Promise me just one last thing." He knows this is not fair to ask, but with his slowed movements and sapped strength, he does not trust his ability to complete the task he is channeling all his will into. He continues to step forward, sword raised, and he hopes against hope that he can cling to this existence for however long he has left. "If I don't kill you now, don't stop until you make it out of here. And when you visit my home, tell my family that I love them."

Now — always.

And then,
Emerson turns the page.

emerson attacks nessa ; mace's sword
H7oO70N8Uesword
shallow cut on thigh - 3.5

sword

[k!ah]

N E S S A
G A R N E R

My blade crashes with steel and for a moment I think it has pierced the plate that protects his heart. My breath catches in my throat but then Emerson stumbled backwards, but he does not fall. He stands tall, breathing through the harshness of my strike as he fought to catch his breath that almost refused to fill his lungs as his oxygen deprived heart struggled to meet his needs.

For a moment I wish that he had fallen to his knees. I wish that my blade had struck home because then- because then I would have to re adjust my grip on my blade and prepare for another should destroying strike against a boy who didn't deserve it. I force the selfish wish from my mind instantly, shame threatening to cause my cheeks to brighten.

"I hope my breath is the last." My eyes squeeze closed at the words, the meaning behind them slamming into my as deadly as his blade. I wasn't surprised by the declaration, Gods, of course I wasn't! Emerson was determined, and he had every right to be. He didn't want to die here, he wanted to live, to survive, to go home. But he was dying, and hearing the proclamation had a wave of guilt crash into me that I knew I wouldn't be able to hide, so I squeeze them shut tighter until I was sure that is was gone. I refused to let him see it, not now. Not when I could see the shadows growing around him ready to carry him away from this life and to the next.

When I open my eyes again his face is streaked with tears, and, for what feels like the one hundredth time today, I forget how to breathe. He smiles at me, blood on his teeth as it slips down his chin, his throat. "Promise me just one last thing," he asks and without hesitation I nod, dragging my eyes from the trail of blood that leaked down his chin. When my eyes meet his they are filled with unshed tears and a sadness that has my own throat burning.

He steps forward, raising his sword and I am not sure if it is my eyes playing tricks on me but I could have sworn it trembled in his grasp. "If I don't kill you now, don't stop until you out make it out of here. And when you visit my home, tell my family that I love them."

"I-" my voice breaks and I nod at him, my hands tightening on my blade so tight that my knuckles turned white. "I promise you that I will do everything within my power to make it home," my tears mirror his own, freely slipping down my cheeks, my gaze not for one moment dropping from his. "And I will tell them just how much you love them- even though I am certain that they know, and that they love you with their whole heart and that they will not stop loving you." A sad smile tugs up my lips as I prepare to strike, "they will never stop loving you."

[attacks Emerson with machete]
5rKBhucuUZsword
[ 4.5 ]

sword