.:Now You See Me:. [Riven & Salome]

[Deleted]

Salome Izar

One of your earliest memories is of the brook by the old oak tree on a hill. Just past the edge of your cousin Sampon’s farm, a hill wedges up out of the ground with a sprawling oak tree. Out beyond was a brook, though back then its expanse was wider and deeper, where all the Izar children would spend summer afternoons throwing their tired bodies into the water. You could have been no more than four, still holding onto Benat’s hand to be led to the water’s edge. While the older boys jumped, and splashed, the girls sat alongside to braid their hair, or lay in the warmth of the sun. Nekane was more interested in trawling for toads, and so you pulled your knees up against your chest and watched the rest. Boredom led to curiosity—and for any four year old, it meant getting your hands dirty.

You squeezed chunks of earth trudged up from below the water and began to smear them across your face. You liked the cool feeling of dirt as it covered your already dark complexion. Soon you had slathered some on your arms, and more around your neck. Is that a swamp monster I see? You could hear Benat’s voice across the water. He was just shy of seventeen; the oldest of the cousins. Deval and Sampson kept splashing—you have to think if Levi and Wilson were there but, you think you remember their dreamy faces—all of them seem not to notice the little girl covered in mud. You have two fistfuls of mud in your hands when he speaks, and you freeze. “I’m hiding.” You whisper out. Because you had already learned in a crowd full of boys that you could be seen but not heard, in your own little world.

It’s no surprise when you pour over the paints and earths scattered across the camouflage station. You have already committed not to fight—or rather, that you cannot hope to live and die by a sword. You take a glob of charcoal and begin to dot underneath your eyes. You will live in your own world, one in which you survive just as long as you can. Perhaps it will be moment, seconds, hours, or days. At this point, you imagine luck will determine fate just as much as your ability will. You take a fist full of clay and mix it carefully into water, creating a reddish sludge.

You smear this across your face, contrasting against the smoky black around your eyes. You drip more along your arms and grin, feeling like a child. “Do you think I look more like I live in the trees, or that I came out from underneath the bottom of a lake?” You say, turning to someone in your periphery. Even if the days are numbered and the odds low, there was no reason not to keep the joy you had.

[solo]

Riven Fowley

My little butterfly creation is not here today. That's alright. I hope she is off at another station, learning something useful. She can't be a child during the all three precious days we have before we are thrown in an arena together. She has to make use of them.
Perhaps I should take my own advice.
I peer down at the twists and swirls of green and brown on my arm, humming softly to myself. It doesn't match the look of a forest floor. It's wrong, too many colors jarring sharply against each other, too bright and too dark to be mistaken for sunlight and shadow. But I'm not trying to hide in a forest. I'm trying to hide in a world I've made that steals me away from reality.
Hendrick used to watch me paint sometimes. Not exactly in a creepy way, but when we were off by ourselves, I'd bring my sketchpads and paint, and I'd put together a piece full of trees and sky and birds while he leaned back and chewed on a long stalk of grain, hat lowered to shade his eyes. I miss my brother. I miss the joy in his smile and the peace that came over me when he laughed. Even when he was laughing at me. I miss feeling comfortable in my own skin. Now, suddenly, it is too loose, flapping in the wind, something I'm unfamiliar with and in which I don't know how to fit.
A soft sigh escapes my lips and the brush jerks slightly to the side. My grey eyes narrow and my brow knits together. Lime green splits across chocolate brown and it doesn't look right. I press my lips together, dip my brush in water, try to cover the mistake.
“Do you think I look more like I live in the trees, or that I came out from underneath the bottom of a lake?”
I look up, surprised, although I am careful not to show it. I refuse to appear like I've been caught off guard, especially here, in the room where my potential opponents are sizing me up. I am calm and collected, never moving too fast, never starting at someone's words. I look up, grey eyes meeting gentle brown ones.
Immediately, I am reminded of a similar pair of eyes, looking up at me from within smudges of deep purple and pitch black paint. But this is not her. This is someone else, older, a girl I recognize from the recap of the reapings. She's shorter than I expected, although still taller than me, as one might expect. Curly hair, childish gaze. She is also younger than I thought. Physically and mentally, it seems, if I consider the question she has just posed in front of me.
My eyes drift down to her mud-coated arms, and I set my paintbrush down on the table. I take in every detail, the dark under her eyes, the rust against her brown skin, the way it smears across her face.
"The trees." I say after a moment, not really acknowledging the strangeness of her question. "You look too earthy to be from a lake." Lake-creatures are mysterious, regal, even arrogant sometimes. She appears too gentle and playful to be any of those things.

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 538}

[Deleted]

Salome Izar

The trees. You look too earthy to be from a lake. The words are terse, and you wonder whether you’ve done something to upset her. None of them should trust you, and yet you ache not to be taken so seriously. This is foolishness, to be sure, but you’ve yet to accept time so rapidly slipping away from you. Dabbing another shade of clay across your arm, you give a grin. If no one else would take the games as the farce they were, you were glad to stand alone. Better to cling to your innocence, child, then be swallowed up too soon. You stare back at the girl now, and give her a once over.

Her petite frame betrays the power that comes from her gray eyes. You stare a little too long. There’s a fire in there, far more than most would see without a second look. Does she remind you of Sampson, with little flecks of starlight? Or perhaps Iago, with endless flame? The paint down her arms is a work of art, and you step forward to get a better look. She’s far better at this than you will ever be—what district was she from again? Did other lower districts let them have paints, or teach them to do such things? You let the questions swirl as you peel away at the crumbling dirt on your arms.

“That’s beautiful.” You say, quiet enough for just the two of you. “You have a real talent at this sort of thing, don’t you? More than me, anyway.” Because one of you—or more—must, that was the way of the world. Talents that would help each of you survive, and claim a crown. “To be honest I think I’m awful at this sort of thing. But I only came over here because I didn’t feel like being thrown around on the mats. Or getting poked with a sword.” Honesty drips from you as though the world thirsts for it. Magdalena would tell you to shut up, to not trust each person who gave you more than a second look.

“I’m Salome. District Eleven.” You hold out your mud stained hand. “You’re from—District Ten?” You can’t remember all the videos you were forced to watch, but her short hair helps to set her apart.

[solo]

Riven Fowley

The girl smudges another bit of clay across her arm, smiling down at it with obvious pleasure. Something flickers inside me, some hope that perhaps not all innocence is murdered along with the tributes in these games. These morbid games that steal away our childhood in broad daylight.
She looks up, smiling, and holds my gaze for too long. I return it for a few seconds before my eyes flicker down to look at my arm. She follows, and scans it with obvious interest and admiration. I didn't get many compliments back home. Yeah, my brothers and parents always said I was a good artist, but they were my family. Were. What are they to me, now that I've left them? I pray that they still accept me as a sister and daughter.
“That’s beautiful.” she says, referring to the design. I haven't quite decided what it is yet. “You have a real talent at this sort of thing, don’t you? More than me, anyway.” I smile faintly and nod my appreciation, forcing myself not to blush. It would be childish. I know I'm a good artist, but compliments are rare in a place where folks are mainly concerned with putting food on the table.
“To be honest I think I’m awful at this sort of thing. But I only came over here because I didn’t feel like being thrown around on the mats. Or getting poked with a sword.” I can practically feel the truth in her tone, and I nod my understanding. Honesty is hard to come by here. There is some part of me, I suppose, that came over here to avoid getting thrown into the ground at the self-defense station. But most of it was the strong urge to create something out of nothing. 
“I’m Salome. District Eleven.” she reaches out a hand tainted with rustic clay. “You’re from—District Ten?”
I nod again, allowing myself to reach out and take her hand in mine. Small, warm, but still bigger and darker than my pasty fingers. Some of the clay transfers to my palm and appears more like blood against the white of my skin. "That's right. I'm Riven." I hesitate, then add, "Riv, if you prefer." I was quick to give the nickname to Wylla. That was because she was a child. This girl is older, bigger than me, potentially a threat. But I find that hard to believe when I consider her childish impulses and innocent words. I conclude that it is safe to give her some piece of who I was a few days ago. "I could give you some tips if you want."

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 436}

[Deleted]

Salome Izar

You take her hand in yours. All warmth and light, this is what gives you hope. When there are uncertain times, and the world seems so set in reminding us that there is no such thing as kinship, there is still hope to be found. Riven is still skeptical—fair enough, you think—but she offers to show you how to decorate your body in color. I could give you some tips if you want. It’s further than you’ve gotten with most of the other tributes, and that’s reason enough to raise your spirits. You give a nod and turn toward the table lined with brushes, paints, and other items meant to keep you hidden. Your eyes catch a blue and you move to grab a hint of the paint.

“My little sister was always better at things like this,” You say. What would Magdalena be doing now? Perhaps she was rereading her favorite book of fairy tales, or sewing another dress. You won’t ever know that she’s taking up alms for sponsorship. “I’m much better at keeping things in order… the sort of things that if you do right, no one seems to notice at all.” There was nothing exciting about those that chose the steady and certain over the spectacular. You splash water on your arm and scrub away the dirt so that the clean skin is exposed. You hold out your arm to the waiting artist.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” And it’s a step further than you should take, but you want to know. It’s the curiosity that has always gotten the better of you. All of these children—even the ones that were years older than you still seemed like children—had someone waiting for them back home, didn’t they? Kindling has caught lit inside of you to find each of theirs reasons for being here. “I’ve only got one, but I have enough cousins that we could probably fill a whole arena—” It’s here you catch yourself. The words seem… disrespectful to the ones that have come before you, somehow.

The world still wants to know why you’re here. Not that you hadn’t given them a reason; there was no one else that had been brave enough to speak first. Yet there was Tamron, so perhaps there had never been a good enough reason at all. Doubt had started to linger, making friends with your shadow. You force a smile one more.