Mending Fences [Salome & Atlas]

[Deleted]

Salome Izar

You know you could have been a healer. With all the bumps and bruises you have helped your cousins to heal, blood does not phase you, nor bodily fluids. They are a natural part of life, you once told Sampson after he watched you wipe the vomit from your sister Magdalena’s cheeks. She had caught the flu and you had to walk her home so that she didn’t infect the rest of the schoolhouse. The teacher trusted you not solely because you were her sister, which was reason enough, but that she knew after tending to her with your gentle hand, you’d walk right back to your lessons. You surprised the boys at your lack of disgust toward jokes about the grotesque or inappropriate; not that you didn’t think they were funny. Their fascination with what was natural in the world could not faze you.

As the training center filled with tribute after tribute, you found a natural place as one of those in the background. There were the obvious boys and girls that pushed their way to the front of the lines (Ronnie and Atlas had you raising your eyebrows; and you couldn’t help but giggle at Wylla). Was there ever such a person that preferred an ancillary role? Your little body barely stood tall enough to be seen in the second row, tucked behind hulking creatures like Tamron or Lorenzo. Somehow, you preferred the shadow, as much light as you are. There were few butterflies in your stomach, even after coming to the realization that there was a 1 in 50 chance of ever seeing your family again (and to be sure, that was giving the best odds).

The afternoon was spent at the first aid station, and you poured over booklets on injuries and how best to fix them. There were the simple ones: a gash on the arm, burns, and poisoning. It wasn’t long before you moved on to loss of limbs, and serious head injuries. You carefully practiced threading a needle through the skin of a waiting dummy, as though you were patching up a wound across his abdomen. The best thing to do was to proceed as though nothing had truly happened, as though all of it would be over soon. That way the patient wouldn’t continue to struggle while your shaking hands fumbled with the wire. The stars above knew how hard it would be with blood covering your fingers. With your luck, it would slip from between your fingertips and into the darkness.

“Would you mind passing me the bandages,” You call out with your hand outstretched. You’ve so fallen into your routine that you don’t even think how it might sound to demand something. There are enough strong personalities around here to be wary, and yet—you don’t seem to threatened. “If you please.”

[kousei ♚]

I've been walking a fine line since the day I learned to hold a spear followed by the day I learned to thread open wounds.

It takes a split second for human reasoning to be temporarily forgotten, my eyes widen at how simple it is for hurt and heal to be so closely entwined. At the sight of blood dripping from synthetic open wounds and gashes my eyes light up in a natural career wanderlust, for a split second I forget what I am, I forget where I am and I forget why I need to learn this-

(for a split second, I am weightless)

wanderlust, everything comes crashing down and I remember and to make it even worse I understand. I reside in the palace of the damned and the damned, trapped within a seer's crystal ball with no sight of the future behind white and grey clouds and smokescreens and mirrors. Like a soul bouncing around a fogged glass and that's why I need to recall the years walking a fine line between two opposite ends of the spectrum.

“Would you mind passing me the bandages, if you please.”

My eyes snap open and my jaw instinctively clenches, a lack of human forethought burning my blood. For there's a burning instinctive impulse to look to whoever called me and ask "who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" because all I am and that's all I know to do.

(but in the presence of human forethought, I let my gaze wander)

Especially from District Eleven but truth be told, she's pretty and I can't quite put my finger on whether she's a threat or a victim at this moment in time.

(and that's just how I force myself to think, how we all need to force ourselves to think)

The spare bandages hover in front of her, guided and held by my own hand.

"Well, since you asked nicely, here you go. I'd be careful if I were you though, I don't know if you watched the games last year but there are some people who share my surname that would rather give you something a whole lot sharper and fatal for bothering them," I pause, letting a playful grin spread across my features. "But I suppose I'm a nice guy. I think."

And for a split second, I forget wanderlust and I remember with a soft chuckle, "although, I suppose you could say the same thing, Izar."

(because we are all defined by bloodlines here)

[Deleted]

Salome Izar

You know that there are boys here that will hurt you. Not that you are a damsel in distress. You never expected a white knight to come to save you. That’s why you’ve always ridden off for the sunset with your own horse. People see you as the caretaker, the girl who holds a smile even when her heart has been torn. Like a bird of winter, you don’t settle down for snow and cold, you search for somewhere warm and full of life. We make our own happiness, you say over and over again, because at least this lets you cling to the belief that goodness is a state of mind. Lest you forget, there’s little more keeping many of the others going than the thought they might make it to the other side.

I'd be careful if I were you though, I don't know if you watched the games last year but there are some people who share my surname that would rather give you something a whole lot sharper and fatal for bothering them. He’s a Lumiere. A career. Tall. Strong jaw. His eyes, though—is that sorrow, or something else hiding? You ought to know when someone is hiding behind something; you do enough of that yourself. White lies, to protect your sister. To keep the others safe. You take the bandages and give another smile. But I suppose I'm a nice guy. There’s enough to tell you to walk away before daring to know more, but you’ve always been too curious.

“I make a habit of not letting someone’s reputation precede them.” You uncoil the bandages and stare down at the floor. Would it be better for them to think you like Iago? He was terrifying as they come. Yet you know your own heart. You will die, but not a lingering pain. The certainty has put you at peace, for now. You’ll wake with your hands shaking and body in a cold sweat, but for now—you’re making your own happiness. You look at Atlas and smile again. “Do you want to practice with me? I could use some company.” Was this too forward? You half expect him to snarl at you, but you figure it’s worth a try.

“For all these people… it gets lonely when you do something like this by yourself.” Well, perhaps you are like your cousin Iago in one way. You’re nothing short of honest. “Besides, I’m no good tying bandages to myself or a dummy. I do better when I have someone to hold onto.”

[kousei ♚]

“I make a habit of not letting someone’s reputation precede them.”

I can't help but internally scoff at the notion, reputation not what perceptions are built upon after all. She doesn't even seem fazed, or offended at the mention of one of her predecessors or caution of who I am and where I come from. Perhaps there's a benefit of being blind to reputation after all, you tend to ignore past tales and focus on the present truths.

A broken reputation is a component to one of the reasons my family compelled me to come here, as if the tools to fix such a fragile thing can be found in palms rough in carrying something as heavy as the world. I suppose perception had always been built on reputation and so am I.

I'm about to turn away from her and leave the short exchange as another line drawn across the sand but the sound of her voice stops me in my tracks before the boundary can be drawn. “Do you want to practice with me? I could use some company.” I'm so used to hearing that sentence, someone asking me to practice with them, help them, show them something other than the ace of spades up my sleeve. “For all these people… it gets lonely when you do something like this by yourself. Besides, I’m no good tying bandages to myself or a dummy. I do better when I have someone to hold onto.”

To be a sturdy support to hold onto.

"Sure, might as well." I say, shrugging my shoulders and shuffling closer to her. "Y'know, you seem more like a healer than a killer, so why would you ask to be here?"

In this world of hurt.

[Deleted]

Salome Izar

He turns to face you, and you feel your heart skip. Not that you should be surprised, but you’ve never been so close to any of the careers. You heard so many stories, and saw so many gruesome things from the games, you know you’re supposed to at least consider the fact he’s a trained killer. But he’s still here, offering to help. Y'know, you seem more like a healer than a killer, so why would you ask to be here? His words hit you as though he’s laid a punch into your gut. Little bird, you should be more prepared for such a question.

“I wanted to make sure that none of us suffered,” You say, voice a little more than a whisper. The look upon your sister’s face still seared behind your eyelids, you chew your bottom lip. But what about Tamron, who volunteered after? If you had been alone, you could have been more of a savior—now your family thinks you a fool. And yet. Who could have known that anyone would have spoken had you not? “I have a sister, a mother, and father. I have dozens of cousins. I guess… I guess I just thought…” Did you think? You hear Sampson now, his voice rattling around in your head. When the night comes here, you have been having worsening dreams.

You shake your head and look back at Atlas. “If we stand for nothing, we will let them do anything to us. And I couldn’t live with myself if it meant they would take it out on so many when one of us could have stepped forward. So I did” Did that make you brave? You certainly didn’t feel as though there was anything different about you. Your hands hadn’t stopped shaking after practicing with a sword. You had let out an unbecoming shriek during your hand to hand instruction. Just another little girl from a lower district; only you were brave enough to give up life when you could have said nothing.

You begin to wrap Atlas’s arm, and your hand moves along his bicep. He’s just what you expected a career to look like—was he the same inside, too? “What do you miss most about your home?” You don’t want to know why he decided to throw himself into the games. You’d rather have known his favorite song—did they have different songs in his district? Did he help his mother cook, and what did they like to eat? You’re afraid to ask him what you already think you know the answer to—so is it with most of the others, that they’re here for glory, to kill, and bring back a victor. You wrap the bandage tighter, and pull yourself in closer.

[kousei ♚]

She reminds me of the light that pries my eyes open every morning I presume to live through nightmares. The way she speaks as if she embodies every virtue under the sun, the way she is: a healer, a speaker, a giver - she didn't come because she craved the scent of glory, she came because she wanted to stop starvation at its roots. I would almost call the sacrifice noble if I hadn't dismissed the idea of nobility altogether.

She's the light that slips through the blinds and breaks the shadows, the silver lining that brings a wave of despair into my still beating heart because not everyone here is like me. In a strange way, it would feel almost wrong to snuff out her light because we need people like her to break the shadows lest we only know the darkness.

'You shouldn't be here-' I want to proclaim but the words simply die in my throat. The fact of the matter is that she is here, simple as that.

“If we stand for nothing, we will let them do anything to us. And I couldn’t live with myself if it meant they would take it out on so many when one of us could have stepped forward. So I did”

And perhaps that's why it's better not to care.

She begins wrapping her bandages around my bicep, her gentle touch setting my nerves on edge as she pulls me closer, years of mother bandaging up wounds and plastering scrapes from the career center resurfacing at the very brush of a bandage.

('It- it hurts.')

('It means you're becoming strong, Atlas.')

"You're good at this," and so was she.

“What do you miss most about your home?”

(moments like this)

It's instinctive for me to say some kind of flirtatious but charming comment but I kill the thought before it can surface. It doesn't seem right to say some kind of pick-up line to her. "A lot of things. I miss routine, I miss waking up and not feeling like I have to carry everything on my shoulders, I miss coming home from a hard day's training and feeling like I'm doing something with myself, and I miss my family," I pause, choosing my next words carefully and sitting on the edge of caution. "I miss simply talking to girls and not wondering if I'll gut them at some point in the future or not."

I shrug my shoulders, looking down at the bandage wrapped around my bicep and the next words come from thirteen years nurture- I can't appear weak in the face of competition after all- "but I suppose it'll be worth it when I win."

(if I win)

That belief is what keeps this brittle crown from shattering.

[Deleted]

Salome Izar

You’re good at this. His is the same look as the Krane boys down the way. Full of promise, same as the air on a summer evening. Nothing you should regret, but enough to know that there is no future there. You stare up from your spot and into his eyes. Little girl, didn’t they teach you who boys like this were? Same as what you saw on television. Slicing up throats and parading about as though they owned people like you. His heart was harder than yours; you’d be a fool to think otherwise. With a twist of your finger, you finish wrapping his bicep, and pull back to take a look at your handiwork.

… I miss routine, I miss waking up and not feeling like I have to carry everything on my shoulders… The words pass through you, and you smile. Sometimes the hardest part of carrying such weight is letting go. Ah, but boys like Atlas never knew when to lighten the load. For there are always those to depend on you, and how lonely is a world where you don’t feel  needed? Useless was as much a swear for you as it seemed for him. You take his hand next, and move it across his stomach so that you can fit him for a sling.

… I miss coming home from a hard day's training and feeling like I'm doing something with myself, and I miss my family. Earnest. He’s not unlike your cousins. They can try and make you forget that each of them has a family, but you never will. He’s proud—that much was obvious the moment he walked toward you—but he hasn’t forgotten who he came from. I miss simply talking to girls and not wondering if I'll gut them at some point in the future or not. At this you laugh. The sort of little snort that you give to Magdalena when she’s grumbling about another injustice in the small corner of her world. You’re quick to throw a hand up to your face to stifle it.

…but I suppose it'll be worth it when I win.

“My grandmother used to say, boys talk about what they want, and men tell you who they want to be.” You tug at the bandage spool and move to wrap his arm into a sling. The question remained, did Atlas want to be a killer? There were plenty examples of boys ill with want, longing for blood. But somehow you don’t want to ask him—you’ll never want to know whether he can take life so easily. That’s not what these hours are for, not when so much else is to be discovered. You look into his eyes. So much truth often came just from what was staring back at you.

“Do you want to be remembered, or loved?” You let the words come out quiet, and wonder if he’ll hear them at all. “I happen to think we’re only going to get a chance at one or the other.”

[kousei ♚]

Nothing - the only color I'm bleeding today.

She wraps white around my arm as if she's binding a wound but nothing hurts yet, there is no crimson grin against my bicep to warrant binding it shut with pinpointed pressure that makes me nod my head impressed. There's nothing, nothing for the fact that it's entirely possible that one of us will kill each other (and I refuse to die) and nothing for the fact that everything about her is nothing but a walking contradiction to everything I've ever stood for, to everything this place stands for.

(what do these seven correlated letters stand for?)

She's a healer, not a hunter, and yet she's the one giving pieces of herself for others, the one who will bite the hollow bullet of loss and feel cracks reverberate through her life's blood. "I'm impressed, that's a good bind." But these words are filler to pass the moments, passing the moments as I begin to come back to the same end points and start points - we all end the same.

“My grandmother used to say, boys talk about what they want, and men tell you who they want to be.” She adds another layer to the bind, another complication to the logic behind my reasoning.

Eighteen years and I've been lost and refusing to be found, simply wandering through cycles like I'm nothing more than a heartbeat and refusing to even acknowledge the possibility of a long term. Eighteen years and not once have I cast ambition to stretch further than the next six months. "She sounds wise," I say with a grin meant to slowly burn the seeds of doubt before they take root.

“Do you want to be remembered, or loved?”

I pause

(we freeze)

but she continues with nothing louder than a whisper - "I happen to think we’re only going to get a chance at one or the other.”

And while we all run on borrowed time slowly spiraling into nothing at terminal velocity there is nothing to indicate that she is wrong. In fact, what's to say I won't be neither? I saw Aedan's eyes when her hand lashed across my cheek - ("just make it quick, Atlas.") The way her voice cut through gales and riptides and left me stunned.

How could anyone love anyone with blood on their hands?

"I wasn't born to be loved, but I was trained to be remembered," there is truth in these words. I stare down at the bandage and recall being polarized since five to forget that I was more than the spear I held in my hand and the golden bloodline I'm slowly letting myself decay for.

I close my eyes and my mind drifts to countless moments and whispering sweet nothings into a woman's ears between the sheets, not once did the words 'I love you' correlate to form a sentence.

Mother and Father flash before my eyes. "The only people I can honestly say I care in that way are my family." I pause, letting my words hang for a second before further armoring myself in justification to shield myself from judgement. "And to be honest, I've never loved a girl I've... been with."

It's a riddle I know the answer to without solving.

"So, how can I expect to receive something I've never been willing to give?

Like a cyclic heartbeat, I always finish at my start point find a way to finish at my start point - nothing. I sigh. "I'm assuming you would rather be loved." It's an honest question. After all, there's nothing else to expect from someone polarized to an opposing plane to me.

[Deleted]

You place a hand on Atlas’s shoulder and steady the cloth that binds his arm into a sling. When this world fades, will you know where you belong? Habits from home still have a hold on your heart. You’re spending the hours tending to a boy rather than preparing yourself for battle. Who could ever have been surprised? Your hand lingers across his chest too long, and you struggle on your tip-toes. He’s unlike your cousins, mostly skin and bone. What story will these sinews tell? You don’t believe he will be exactly as he’s been trained to be. True, thoughts are harder to come when they’ve been pushed down between your toes. Others have written his story for him; the question will be whether holding the pen he’ll let the truth follow.

I’m impressed, that’s a good bind.

If you had stayed in District Eleven, you would have been a healer. There were already plans for you to stay with abuela and learn all the old roots, tinctures, and salves from the old days. How you loved to while away hours in her little shanty. Grinding leaves into powder and speaking an old tongue, you were at home. Your sister would complain of the smell and the monotony. Magdalena never took to learning about the earth. She was a sun child, hot and full of passion. Your mother imagined you soaked up all the patience, leaving none for her. Would that you had some of her fire now, maybe you’d have half a clue what you needed to stay alive.

I wasn’t born to be loved, but I was trained to be remembered. Here is doubt, foul creature. The world has been unkind to Atlas because that is life. No one is born to be loved; that much is true. Lucky the few that have someone to hold. You don’t presume to know what District One taught him, or his family. Only that you are sad he does not imagine that he can be loved. Sampson was more right than you care to believe; the wicked want us to believe we’re created to serve, not to be loved.

“Sometimes what we’re used to is not where we belong.” These are not your words—they’re Magdalena’s. It scares you when they come out, as though the wisdom is carved and clean. And you think about the words, that what has been safe and stable may not be what the world needs you to be. In the days that you’ve been in the capitol, you’ve tasted sweeter fruits and learned how different other districts are (and how they are much the same.). Now you wonder about what was left behind, and the kind of ghost you could have been if you’d never left.

…so how can I expect to receive something I’ve never been willing to give?

You have no answer for him. Love only reveals when it is ready, not with force. You were hopeful enough that you could love, despite never finding one to share such feelings. Lucky were you to see how your mother wrapped herself in your father, and how he kissed her each morning on the forehead. The quiet power of a force too deep to disappear, even after grief. You hoped for his sake it would come before either of you left this world.

I’m assuming you would rather be loved.

“I used to think that the scariest thing would be to disappear. To be gone one day, and for the entire world to go on as though I’d never been.” You had the nightmares after Benat died, and they stayed with you through Iago’s rage fueled death. “But then I got to thinking that… maybe death isn’t the end of everything.” You look at him carefully, head tilted up to see his face. “Whether or not it’s true, I think that we go on even after we die. So what does it matter for me to be remembered? I can’t hold on to anything after I’ve gone.”

“But love—being loved,” You smile. “At least I get to share that. If when I’m gone all I have left is love, that seems to be a better end than I could hope for. If I should be lucky enough that I join my cousins on the other side—I’d still have love.” You sound like your great grandmother, the one that smelled of ginger root and had glassy eyes. Yet you’re more certain than you’ve ever been before.