Quench like a flame ‘cause the very last light is gone

[iphigeneia]

Who| Felicity & Open
What| Wallowing in self pity
Where| Tribute Center
When| Week 04
Warnings/Notes| N/A

Waking up had been humiliating in ways Felicity never knew existed. It was one thing to die, to be murdered. It was quite another to have her death mean nothing and go unavenged. She felt positively appalled thinking about it. And worse than that, she felt disgusted at recalling the details of her own demise. To die by Cinderella's hand was fitting and fine. To linger and whimper in the arms of Marius Pontmercy was another matter entirely. It was revolting.

Now she was saddled with that hideous burden of shame, at showing weakness and intimacy to an undeserving public. She swore she'd never stoop so low, and if this were truly her new reality (as it indeed appeared to be) she promised herself and whatever powers were at her disposal that she would never she that kind of weakness again. She was Lady Strength. She would return to that form soon.

But not before wallowing in her self pity awhile longer. She'd made her way into a common area at last, dead set on feeling sorry for herself and her fallen state before daring to explore her new surroundings or the strange people in it. A girl had a right to sulk, and dammit, she was going to exercise that right if it killed her.

Comments

[iphigeneia]

"You must forgive me for speaking bluntly, Enjolras, but you are ill-acquainted with me entirely." Felicity rose from her seat then, taking the limited opportunity to loom over him. "And if I recall my history correctly- and I do- your attempt at insurgency ended in a bloody massacre."

[orestes]

His expression had been far from pleasant before, but that earned her an outright snarl. "Recorded history is all too often the luxury of the victorious, mademoiselle. We failed and we suffered the consequences for it, but we failed in the pursuit of something in which we truly believed. Moreover, none of us acted in any capacity that did not serve virtue."

With the exception of one man, but Enjolras had made short work of that himself. The consequences for that, both real and imagined, he would endure alone.

[iphigeneia]

"That is where you are wrong, sir. Your history was written by a Victor, but not the kind you assume." If she were not in this situation, she would have been pleased by her wordplay there. "You are remembered lovingly, thoughtfully. You are a noble hero, Enjolras. Those who have read your tale are destined to admire you. I don't need to be convinced of the righteousness of your actions in Paris. I know them well, and as I said, I will aid you should you do it again."

[orestes]

Everything about her words confused him. He wasn't the sort to miss a reference, or to feel somehow ill-prepared for such interactions and yet, this conversation had been one terrible mystery after another. Who was this girl? How did she know so much of him? And why, knowing what she did, would she bother herself about him? None of it made any sense.

Still, he severity of his expression eased slightly and he regarded her with a sort of weary acceptance. Too much of Panem was a mystery to bother too much with those particular to individuals. A promise of aid was a promise of aid. It couldn't be overlooked. "As you wish, mademoiselle. I should wish that all the Tributes felt similarly. If not for me than for the sentiments I apparently represent."

[iphigeneia]

Felicity would accept this as a victory. She did not smile at him, though she greatly wanted to celebrate her triumph. Instead, she settled for easing back into her chair as if it were a throne and she were an empress upon it. She did not look proud so much as serene.

"Enough of us do, monsieur. And those who don't may still be persuaded." You've persuaded me already, and I've read your book, you little frog. "I dislike being subjugated. Surely I am not alone in that."

[orestes]

"I admire your confidence, mademoiselle." He said, passively. Something about her serenity made him uncomfortable. It was again the keen sensation that she knew something he didn't and was neglecting to share the information. As their conversation was at a standstill, more or less, he had the opportunity to leave it all together.

With a polite inclination of his head, he rose, again adjusting his jacket to be presentable. "Well then, I should be on my way."

[iphigeneia]

"If you insist, Monsieur." She watched him fidget, staring at him still. "I look forward to our discussion next time."

[orestes]

"Perhaps it will have the opportunity to truly be a discussion." He wasn't looking at her as he responded, not really, anyway. This girl was bothersome, vexing. Pleasantries were all well and good, but he didn't really want to have another conversation with her.

"They have a certain phrase here about odds, but I think it is better if I just wish you good luck, Mademoiselle Worthington. On whatever it is you choose to pursue here."