"The fallen angel" and "the devil in disguise"
Two names Ares Aristo was known for, a boy who had more to him than originally met the eye. Charming the capital with his kind facade, it was only in the games did they realized just how far an angel ca...
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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐰𝐨.
( learn your lessons, find your purpose )
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During those six months out of the spotlight, Ares learned more lessons than he cared to count. Each one hit like a sledgehammer to the ribs, leaving him to piece himself back together, one bone at a time. Rib after rib, slotted back in like armour over his bleeding heart.
But he needed them for what came next. Armour was essential in the world he now belonged to. Not the kind he used to wear, the standard-issue worker overalls of District life. That was different. This was Capitol armour: polished smiles, practiced charm, impenetrable silence. A defence not against blades, but against questions. Against eyes. Against anyone wanting to exploit his weaknesses.
Every Victor learned the lessons eventually. The only difference was what they did with them afterward.
The first hard-to-swallow pill: Ares missed the arena.
Not the warped landscapes that shifted with every sadistic whim, or the hidden lenses tracking his every movement. But the certainty of it all. The feeling.
Because now, he felt nothing.
Sure, Finnick's letters helped a little. They were warmth in miniature—like a candle cupped between cold hands. But when the sun dipped and Ares closed his eyes, that little flame didn't stand a chance against the demons of his mind.
He'd go to bed drifting numbly, but wake up in the dark, shirt soaked in sweat, heart pounding like he'd sprinted through fire all over again. The memories were fresh in a way that would never get old. He'd shake, gag, want to claw his skin off. And sometimes he actually did it, finding welting marks over his arms when he woke up that he'd have to cover before he left the room. The last thing he needed was more worried looks from his family.
It was just that... these weren't really normal dreams or even normal memories. As if the torment couldn't get worse, the faces of the dead would twist into monsters. Black pits for eyes, like when he came across Madeva. His nausea then must have lent a hand to the imagery. Now, all thirteen tributes he'd killed had those gouged eyes, grinning at him with mouths torn into bloody smiles and words as sharp as their teeth. He could never escape it.
Each dream began the same way: Ares killed them, just like before. But each time, they rose again—reanimated horrors chasing him through snow, or rain, or flames, or even climbing up through the broken chasms in the ground. Laughing and lunging, they tried to drag him down with them, tearing at him with the goal of ripping him apart piece by piece and limb by limb.
Sometimes they caught him. Those were the nights he couldn't breathe when he woke up. Those were the nights he'd call nightmares.
Other times, he turned around and fought back. Killed them again, more violently than the first time. And when he woke from those dreams...
