Worth it | F.O.

XXVIII

As a kid in the orphanage of District 11, already as hardened to life as she was, Nivea had heard the other children talk of dancing. The way it drained them and yet, at the same time, filled their voices with laughter and faces with grins. There were mentions of skipping, twirling, swaying in another's arms. And as she grew up the talk only spread further with talks of love and companionship. 

Nivea had never felt any such thing. To her, this mentioned activity was like one of her own and so, naturally, she felt little inclination to participate. Her own version of dance had been ingrained into her bones from that moment she decided to dedicate her life to something so much greater. And in the moment she had been waiting for, her limbs itched and her body lightened with the memory of that dance. 

The dance of blades. The dance of fists. The dance of life and death. The dance of pain. A dance that called her from the mud and ash in which she lay then. In which clung to her like the weaknesses, fears, and traitorous thoughts that had bloomed from pain, loss, and turmoil in that arena. 

The dance that had no care for the sight she had lost. It cared not for the blood she continued to spill nor the gaping hole in her hand that burned so very terribly alongside the other bearing that throbbing welt. It only cared that she was being a disgrace to all she stood for; she was being weak. Like him. Like those damn children - no, cowards - she had killed so heartlessly - no, she had to remind herself again at the creeping of guilt, bravely. 

Nivea was acting as a disgrace to the art of the dance left abandoned to let her lay beneath them and their knives. If she weren't to use that dance now when it became a rhythm of swinging, slicing blades, when would she ever? If only she could beat them down, if only she could win, she would be fine. She would survive. 

And with her would burn the building revolution brighter. 

There were no other options. 

So in the instant that very blade dripping in her blood dove to take her other eye, her hand came to take its place. With a sickening squelch and another spray of blood drip drip dripping on her cheeks, the knife once more lodged itself in her palm. The pain came to life once more with a fury though, considering there was already a hole, it didn't hurt quite as badly as it had the first time around. 

Lips parting into a yell; angry and pained, Nivea let her restraints fall to the ground. Her forehead slammed into his and with a swift turn of her wrist tearing the blade into her skin further and from his grasp, the end of the blade protruding from her flesh sunk into Ten's chest. She smiled, satisfaction so glorious in her heart as she used her other hand to hammer it in even further. Their blood mixed on her hands. Ten fell back to the ground beside her with a scream, his blood staining his shirt and trickling everywhere in streams. 

Without wasting a second, Nivea turned to face Seven, the blade in her hand falling to the ground. But then there was the blade of his axe falling down to cut and cave in her skull. In a panic with that dance puppeteering her limbs with a swift, smooth fluidity, she rolled just enough out of the way. With a boom and the spraying of mud and blood raining down around her, the shining metal under a strong grip caved in the earth where her head had been just a moment before, ringing against the blade that had already dealt so much damage.

Nivea wasted no time in wrapping her legs around his and pulling him to the ground just as the sunlight stopped mere feet away. They both had to listen in a moment of shared, shocked silence as they stared off into the wall of flames bursting life when Ten, of only 18 years, was engulfed. 

He screamed. 

His flesh sizzled. 

His hair was the first to go, then his clothes, and then in a pool around his bones he melted.