petrichor — areto & emerson

[tick 12a / calla]

A R E T O

► ► ►

During her week in the Capitol, Areto finds herself feeling irrevocably and undeniably underwhelmed. But she isn't sure what she expected. Competent trainers? Fearsome warriors? All she's seen so far are a cluster of scared kids who think that learning to put on a good show is more important than learning to survive.

And it disturbs her right down to her very soul. She hates this place and what it stands for. She hates way that everyone seems woefully underprepared. Is this what the rest of Panem is like? Bleak and hopeless and disgusting?

She spends most time near the training pool and the plants station just to pretend that she isn't where she is.

So it seems like a miracle when something draws her eye. Someone, maybe. The girl's blade is an extension of herself. It looks natural. There's a familiarity to the way Emerson Le Roux moves and Areto is stuck so suddenly, so harshly, with the sting of homesickness.

But over the span of the day, Areto watches Emerson ebb and flow and curl in on herself. She watches her fidget under the fluorescents and bare her teeth and change in a matter of seconds. Emerson stumbles without a weapon in her hand and bows underneath a force that seems purposeful. Her feet drag, her balance shifts, and her whole demeanour crumbles.

She's hiding, and it frustrates Areto. It boggles her. Areto isn't afraid to show Blade the difference between the dangerous plants and the safe ones. She has no problem showing off her aim and practicing her flourishes. It's who she is. She's never been on to hold back. The Amazons are proud women, and they cower under no one. If Areto wants to train authentically, with all eyes on her, she will. If the other tributes are intimidated by that, then they have the common sense not to say anything.

So why then, does Emerson Le Roux not do the same? She has the name, she has the skills, she could have the whole arena groveling at her feet if she wanted.

Fighting on the island is less spectacle and more necessity. There's no embarrassment in it. There's no self-consciousness. Areto was a teacher there. She was a mentor and a sister and a nurturer and she could see the potential in people. She didn't go easy on the girls, and they didn't expect her to. And standing there, watching Emerson fade into the textured rubber matts, she sees potential again.

She's heard the rumours and the stories of the children from One. She's had a taste of the ferocity - she wants to see what a so-called career can do with no reservations.

Her palms curl around the hilts of her falcatas. Areto crosses the room in a matter of second, beelining for the one streak of gold in the room.

"Spar with me." She says, simple and to the point, more demand than suggestion.

[alex 🐺]

The thing that they don’t tell you is that it’s always an act and someone’s always watching, even when you think that you’re the only one who might be around.

After whatever the fuck happened with Love and her subsequent argument with Julian, Emie had gone back to the District One apartments and promptly threw a well-deserved temper tantrum because he had gotten so thoroughly under her skin, it was like he had bought himself a fucking condo and started redecorating. She felt bad for the Avoxes who had to clean up her mess, but at least they did it quietly. The days that followed saw Emie show up promptly for every meal, water switched out for vodka. Fruits and vegetables and protein to continue to build strong muscles and provide a bit of extra energy when food sure as hell wasn’t guaranteed in the arena. Everything the trainers had pounded into her head over the years were ringing in her ears. 

But in the training rooms—she shut down, the mask firmly in place. The first few days she had stormed into the weapons section like a bat out of hell, tiring herself out because that was the only way to quiet the demons that had taken residence on her shoulders. She wore Silk on her right and Emmett on her left and their voices were always so fucking loud, telling her where to step, where to parry, where to throw the knife to instill fear in the heart of the other tributes. She exhausted herself to get rid of their memories, shoving them away and willing them to fade like smoke. They lingered. They always lingered. She hoped they would never fade away.

And now, after the die had been cast and they had thrown their lot in with Love, Emerson doesn’t have to try anymore.

She falters going up against one of the trainers, missing an easy parry when she should have sliced him through the armor he was wearing. She trips before tossing a knife at one of the dummies and the end hits somewhere five feet in front of it. She fucks up on the obstacle course, dropping to the ground on the climbing wall.

Let them think the lion was suffering from her demons, let them discount her and look past her, focusing only on her name. Let them see Le Roux and think lethargy, lachrymose, lamenting, lonesome. Let them believe the lie—that the games were getting to her, the training and the long hours. Let them forget the lion in sheep's clothing.

So when the girl from Four approaches her, stepping calmly and assuredly, her grace belying the warrior that Emerson was sure was hovering underneath her skin, Emie doesn’t know what to think. She knows she’s made a spectacle of herself, but the girl from Four had always stayed on the peripheries, ebbing and flowing like an ocean’s wave, her fluidity the image of a ship cutting through water, leaving nothing but a small wake in her path.

“Spar with me,” she says, and Emerson—well she’s always been a sucker for a pretty face. She’d have a hard time saying no to anything that Four said to her, even if the words demanded that she stab a knife in her own heart. Honestly, if Julian was going to go for the whole fake relationship thing, couldn't she do that too? It would be a release, after all. And she was so tense these days. 

Putting back the talwar that she had grown quite fond of since yesterday morning, Emerson’s eyes travel up and down the girl’s form, her chest and head held high. She carried herself with something that wasn’t quite the same as the rest of them. No, she was different, somehow. Emie would relish learning exactly what made her tick. 

Rubbing her hands on the back of her leggings, she laughs, licking her lips as she gazes at the girl. “Just like that? You know, where I come from, that sentence is loaded with innuendo and double entendre.”

Emie steps to the mats on the floor, reaching down to touch first her right hand and then her left to the ground, daring the girl to strike while she stretches. “What does it mean on Four?” She pulls her right arm across her chest with her left hand, flashing a smile that even Love would cream his pants over.

[tick 12a / calla]

A R E T O

► ► ►

"Just like that?" She asks, and Areto rolls her shoulders.

Maybe island life has made her sheltered. She's naive enough to watch Emerson stretch and then mature enough to step closer. She stops short in front of the other girl and tilts her head the smallest bit, she raises her chin and scans Emerson's face and what does it mean on Four?

"It means what I said."

It means a lot of things.

"You're deflecting." She says and narrows her eyes, "You've been deflecting."

Emerson's been pretending and cutting herself short and the other tributes would be blind not to see it. Because this? This girl that burns so brightly? Smothering a fire like that is practically criminal.

"Where I come from," Areto retorts, "We don't change who we are for some man." Her gaze slides to the tribute from Two, to Emerson's own District partner, and then back, "Some boy."

Maybe she doesn't have context. Maybe she's being more rash than she should be. But there's some primal part of her that's been watching Emerson pull her punches and clip her fangs and it boils. She feels robbed of something. She feels protective over a fight that isn't hers. And she blames the only thing she knows. This is why the girls rarely leave the island, Areto realizes, because of the egotistical breed that spreads across the mainland like a plague and suddenly think that they own everything. Areto's been here for what, barely a week? The dynamics she's already seen make her silently seethe.

And she's frustrated. She's out of her element. She's on foreign soil and it's put her on edge. She's been trained to fight honourably and to respect her opponent and there is none of that here. People are underhanded and cunning and she is Areto - prideful and strong and blunt. She's a warrior in a monastery and a fish out of water.

She barely waits for Emerson to rise before she's moving.

Areto hooks her ankle and pulls her leg in, uses her momentum to take them both down to the ground. She lands with one arm across Emerson's throat and the point of the falcata lands beside the other girl's head. The point of it rips deep into the mat and Areto's curls fall into her face and then she leans in further, shifting her weight to hold Emerson down, "Stop holding back."

[alex 🐺]

Emerson should really stop thinking about the way that sweat is clinging to Four’s chest, glistening in the fluorescent lights. She should take a breath, move backwards because her pathetic attempt at flirting had clearly backfired as Four steps into her space, into her air, gazing up at her.

Her eyes are like sunbursts, greens and golds with flecks of copper and Emerson feels a scoff break through her lips when the girl says, "It means what I said. You're deflecting." Of course, she was. That was the name of the game. ”You've been deflecting."

As if Emerson owed this girl any explanation for herself. As if she owed anyone that. But her facade crumbles into the ruins that she had built around her heart since losing Emmett and Silk and the weight of Four’s gaze burns, actually burns, saltwater over a skin littered with wounds like size of papercuts.

"Where I come from," the girl adds, and Emerson’s surprised that she doesn’t get a slap to the face with the force at which the girl throws her words at Emie. They all make their mark though, precision-guided barbs landing and sticking just under her skin.

She really, really had to stop letting people do that to her. First Love and now —"We don't change who we are for some man."

Four pauses and her eyes move away from Emerson. She’s powerless to do anything but follow her gaze, struck dumb at the nerve of this girl to question the veil that Emerson had seemingly so successfully pulled over everyone else’s eyes. Save for her. “Some boy."

The derision is clear and Emie finds herself laughing because that was the farthest from the truth. She thought, somehow, that this was all for Love (pun intended), which was—

“If you really think that this is about that asshole from Two then you need to get your—whoa!”

Emie should have seen it coming, really. But she’d been too busy staring at Love and imagining his face on a dartboard with little arrows sticking out of his stupid fucking cheeks that she doesn’t even register the rage boiling beneath the surface of Four’s skin like a hurricane, her leg lodging behind Emie’s knee, dropping her with the force of a girl twice Four’s size. They land in a heap and Emie tries to suck in a breath, but it's quite fucking difficult when Four’s entire forearm is across her fucking throat and the tip of her sword is right next to Emie's temple.

"If you wanted me to fall for you, you could have cushioned the landing a bit, sweets," Emie grins up at the girl, or tries to grin, voice hoarse from the force of her arm on Emerson’s windpipe.

She smells like the ocean—salt air and something floral like gardenias or oleander and it overwhelms Emerson's senses, as she grabs at the girl’s arm for her to relent, ease up just a bit, but she knows enough to remember where to hit when she was pinned down, even if it was by a pretty girl with freckles like constellations across her face.

Emmett had taught her and she flows through the moves effortlessly, bridging her hips and throwing her hands down to roll out from under Four, but her heart and her stupid need to have the last word get the better of her and she turns back, pushing the girl onto her back in the same way that she had pinned Emie, knees on either side of her waist. She ignores the falcata (such a lovely sword) where it’s embedded deep into the mat. Emie doesn’t go for her throat though—that’s never been her style—but she pins Four’s arms by her head, fists locked around her wrists.

“At least tell me your name before you drop me on my ass again.”

[tick 12a / calla]

A R E T O

► ► ►

Emerson burns like a sunburst under her and it makes Areto's face warm.

“If you wanted me to fall for you, you could have cushioned the landing a bit, sweets.” Emerson says from underneath her, showing her teeth, and Areto should be offended that she isn't taking this seriously. She should be baffled by the concept of fighting for any purpose other than practicality.

"If I wanted you to fall for me, I would have a little more tact." She says instead.

Courtship on the island is more like a dance than a spar. Evidently the mainland doesn't share the same sentiment.

Then Areto's grip suddenly slips from the falcata and she's spun over like a wave. She feels the earth tilt and the walls move and then there's the crash of her back hitting the ground. She blinks and Emerson is above her, halo'd by the lights in the ceiling. Areto grins despite herself, Emerson's face so close to her own that she can make out the flecks of gold in her eyes. There are hands around her wrists and Areto only tests the grip once, pushing up against the weight to see if it's a bluff.

"That's better." She says quietly, absentmindedly, tracing the way the flourescents make Emerson's hair glow.

"Areto." She breathes out steadily. And then, "My name is Areto."

And the way Areto doesn't move feels a little bit like a test. She doesn't understand the careers, but she wants to. There's respect in Amazonian fighting, for both parties. Here, she's seen children gloat over their meager victories and try to grip the whole world in their greedy little palms.

She could get out of Emerson's grasp. She knows that. Emerson's grip is tight but her hands aren't steady and her balance sways more than once. She's lived a life very different than Areto. She's never swam against the current in a thunderstorm and she's never raced against the wind after a hunting party. Areto knows her body like she knows how to breathe. Emerson holds herself as if she's still discovering it.

Let me teach you, Areto wants to say to this girl that's supposed to be her enemy, let yourself learn.

But "I already know who you are, Emerson Le Roux."

"I know your name, but I don't think that's who you are." She shakes her head slowly and feels more hair loosen from her braid, "I've seen you. I don't think you're like them. I think you're better, and I think you could beat them all."

"But you're hiding." Areto bites out and rises a little bit, lifting her shoulders just enough to get into Emerson's face, "You're wasting your talent and I think it's because you're afraid."

And fighting an opponent that holds herself back so fiercely makes something rise viscerally within her. She would feel cheated of a fair fight. The victory would be bitter and the defeat even more so. Areto bears her neck in a sign of surrender, conceding to this wildfire and waiting for her to rise to it. Maybe Emerson's being goaded. Maybe it is a test. Maybe it isn't.

"Prove me wrong."

[alex 🐺]

"If I wanted you to fall for me, I would have a little more tact." 

Oh, Emerson's going to have fun with Four. When she changes their position, she isn’t thinking, she’s just trying to prove a point. Apparently, she does, if Four’s little exhale of “that’s better” is anything to go by.

“Areto,”she says, “my name is Areto.” And the way her name escapes Areto’s lips is like a song, like a splash of water on a hot summer day, and it nearly makes Emerson’s heart skip a beat. Areto, the simplicity and beauty bewitching in the best of ways.

Emerson wasn’t above playing with Areto, but the way the girl was looking at her, with equal parts intrigue and loathing, malice written across her features makes Emie want to sit back on her heels just a bit. She doesn’t. And she doesn’t loosen her grip on Areto’s wrists yet. She can’t—because she can feel Areto’s heartbeat under her fingertips and the staccato beat proves that the girl is real underneath her. Not a dream, not a vision, not something Emie’s mind has made up to provide solace in this place. She wants to enjoy this closeness with someone else, snatched away and made her own by her own desire, her need to prove herself to whomever she meets.

Because Loathe was right when she said her reputation preceded her. It’s written across her face, her eyes, her smile, every inch of her body, and even if Areto seems to move in and out of the Training Center like the rising and falling of the tides, Emerson has clearly made herself known to the girl from Four—“I know your name, Emerson Le Roux.”

Emie would be stupid to admit that she liked the way it came out of Areto’s mouth, the consonants and the syllables, and the way her lips wrapped around the r in Roux and then trailed off. It had sounded so wrong out of Loathe’s mouth, like a curse word, but Areto says it almost like a prayer.

"I know your name, but I don't think that's who you are." Emie’s gaze drops from Areto’s eyes to her lips and then down her neck as she speaks, before she returns her gaze to Areto’s eyes, leaning in closer despite herself. Her hair falls around them, framing their faces and providing some sense of solitude, despite the shouts and grunts all around them. They could be alone for all Emie cared about anyone else in this very moment. "I've seen you. I don't think you're like them. I think you're better, and I think you could beat them all."

"But you're hiding."

A taunt, punctuated with Areto’s weight shifting under Emie’s hands, her face moving close to Emerson’s. They could—they were close enough that if Emie leaned down she could—she inhales sharply as Areto spits out, “You're wasting your talent and I think it's because you're afraid."

Well, that was definitely a mood killer.

Because that was—so not the truth (it was, damn her). Emie hadn’t really banked on anyone actually seeing the veneer sliding firmly into place, but then again, she’d always lacked the sort of self-awareness to know how she looked when she was acting and how she looked when she actually meant something. But Areto had seen the paper lion, toothless and shackled with her nails trimmed down to the quick that she’s made herself into and she had clearly found it wanting. Had found Emerson wanting.

Right hand moving as quickly as she could to pull the falcata from where it stood, sticking straight up in the air and lodged in the mat, Emie leans back on her heels, aiming the tip at Areto’s jugular. Areto clearly wanted a reaction, she wanted the lion lashing out, swiping her paw across the cage and calling it a roar.

"Prove me wrong," she says simply.

“And so your solution is to provoke me into a fight?” It doesn’t make sense at all and Emie feels caught off-balance, on her back instead of on her knees. She was being asked to prove her worth to someone who didn’t know her, couldn’t know her just from a week of observation and ten minutes in each other’s presence. It was—too much—too revealing far too quickly, despite the way that Emerson’s heart and mind wanted to yell and scream from the rooftops at being seen, at Areto seeing through it all. 

What do you want from me? Emie wants to ask, a challenge unlike any other tossed her way so casually with so much more behind it.

Her hand nearly shakes from the force of holding back from the girl underneath her, from showing her hand and baring her teeth and stripping away the armor that she has spent years polishing and re-polishing with words, threats, and innuendo, but Emerson wills herself to say the following words instead, voice low and wary. “What’s your play here, Areto?”

[tick 12a / calla]

A R E T O

► ► ►

Areto watches Emerson watch her. The girl's hair falls around them, one strand tickling Areto's nose and it's like suddenly being surrounded by ambrosia. Areto blinks and she's lying in the sand under the sun. She can feel the saltbreeze stick to her skin and the grains of silt pass through her fingers. There's the sound of the waves in the background, crashing and battering themselves into the rocks, and it's a soothing sort of lullaby. She breathes and tastes the sharp bite of sideritis flowers.

Cold steel hovers against the side of her neck and it jolts her away.

“And so your solution is to provoke me into a fight?” Emerson asks, looking at her so fiercely that Areto almost aches from it.

She has to fight her grin.

"It worked, didn't it?"

Because here she is - here is the lioness, maybe still a little bruised, maybe a little battered, but Areto can see her fangs gleam in the light and watches it reflect against the weapon in her hands. She sees something like a promise in Emerson's eyes, there's something uncertain there too, but it's quieter. It's starting to fade.

“What’s your play here, Areto?”

"There's no play." She returns easily, "That's not what this is."

She wants to die honourably, to someone who isn't afraid or cowardly or arrogant. She wants her mothers and her sisters to look down at her proudly and light a choai in her honour. She wants her family to keep their home and their way of life and to not have to worry about the pollution from across the water.

The island is everything to her, but Areto wants a lot of things. Some more than others.

"I just want a worthy opponent."

Emerson holding the blade means that one of Areto's hands is free now, and, sure, the point of the falcata is right there, but she's gotten out of worse. Deianeira taught her well. She's reminded of the flat of a sword against her neck and the point of a knife angled against her abdomen. She can recall her mother standing against a spear so strongly that not even a mountain could ever think of moving her. She remembers training and training and then training again in those last two years she had been home for, she remembers falling into the dirt and being pushed into the tide, but, more importantly, she remembers getting back up again.

There's the slightest tremor in Emerson's body and that tells Areto everything she needs to know. She grabs the wrist holding the falcata and twists it, forcing it away from herself and out of Emerson's half grip. She knees Emerson in the stomach as gently as she can muster, more push than anything, forcing her up and over to the side so she rolls.

Areto gets to feet and examines the falcata, pushing the tip against her finger and then looking down at Emerson. There's the smallest hint of a smile pulling at her face, and she studies Emerson for a long moment. She's searching for something, and when she finds it, she grins and bares her teeth.

There's something about Emerson. Something she can't quite put her finger on yet, but she knows it's there.

"Let me know when you get tired of those boys." Areto says slyly, reaching over to rest the falcata back on the weapons rack.

“Ḕ tā̀n ḕ epì tâs.” She tosses over her shoulder, then she turns and she's gone.