no light, no light {saffron + percy} // blitz

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

[presto][/presto]

you are the hole in my head
you are the space in my bed
you are the silence in between
what i thought and what i said

My fingers clutch the letter by its crease.

I poured my heart out into the ink of a pen- and my hand shook as I glided its tip over the page. I write goodbye into hundreds of words on a piece of parchment, but it means nothing next to Calypso's warmth and embrace. (Things they stole from me, things I cannot feel, here.)

They didn't let me say goodbye after they tore her arms from mine and beat her bloody to the ground. I watched the crimson spatter on the concrete as my heels dragged on the ground, cutting grooves into the gravel path.

I know the legend of Saffron Lowe as well as the next tribute. She is a bed time story, the little girl with sunset hair and a crown on her head. Saffron Lowe was my age when she won the Games- perhaps I should idolize her, but I could never strive to have blood on my hands.

(But in a few days time, I will have blood on my hands.)

I do not remember much from the 65th Games, but I remember the blood she left on Lucy Peverell. But she did not leave her to rot- she gave the friend she had slain a warrior's burial.

Perhaps I do idolize her in this: Saffron Lowe was a killer, but she never became a murderer.

Seeking out the young victor was no difficult task- I just had to ask one of the servants which elevator she takes to her room.

The quiet pitter patter of my feet against the marble floor of the corridor sound like gunshots in the silence.

"M-Miss Saffron?" I call to the back of her head, to the copper pouring down her back.

you are the night time fear
you are the morning when it's clear
when it's over you're the start
you're my head, you're my heart

[✨ zozo.]

She cuts her hair off that morning.

Blue stands by her side with scissors in hands and Saffron swears she sees a tear threatening to leak from his eyes. "Just do it" she grimaces, steadfast and gritting her teeth. "Cut it off."

"But-"

"Do it."

The little girl with long red hair floats to the floor, swept out of sight, swept out of mind. There's a stranger in the mirror (isn't there always?) with hair up to her shoulders. A hand slides down the back of her head and catches on nothing. 22, a ghost at her spine in the form of her younger self.

It's a change. She's starting to like those.

Reflections catch at her eyes, she can't stop staring. Unrecognisable. She likes that. Anonymity in this place is a luxury, wanting to slip into the shadows. Tributes float by and she can't bear to look them in the eyes (she never can). Her room is a sanction and it consumes her all at once, a place of chaos and breakdowns and precious hours alone.

"M-Miss Saffron?" she turns, and the little girl comes back again as she crumbles. The little one (of course, for she is cursed to be haunted by them again and again and again), terrified, courageous, shaking with wide eyes and a piece of paper clutched in her hands.

She is 14 years old boarding the train, Mace's name all Mr.'s and formalities on her lips. She 15 years old, blood on her hands, hugging Colgate O'Leary like a friend, like they'd all be a family. She is 16 years old slipping shaky promises underneath Leon Krigel's door: You'll be okay - no he won't. Nat. Scout. No, they're not okay.

She is 17, 18, 19, forced into fluffy dresses, screaming at Avoxes, throwing brushes at mirrors with her hair in pigtails.

She is 20, in love. 21, loved back.

She is 22, pretending.

Be brave, her younger self tells her. Be brave.

"Yes?"