thecapitol | Thicker Than Blood Start

For Tributes with keen eyes, they'll notice that Peacekeeper presence seems increased and yet infinitely more ineffective in the last few weeks. Peacekeepers seem harried, as do the Stylists, and most of the Escorts titter and plot without alerting the Tributes as to what, exactly, is so exciting. They simply say that this weekend they'll know.

And so it happens that on the weekend in question, the Tributes are woken by their Escorts early and brought to a restaurant for a hearty breakfast. The restaurant is nothing spectacular, although they seem to be trying to make an impression on the television cameras that float around. The sleepy, cranky meal goes by and then the Tributes are led back to their Suites for a mandatory meeting.

Sitting on couches and the floor, in chairs and on windowsills, standing off to the side - people from the Tributes' homes are waiting to greet them in each District Suite. Some are confused, some accepting, some frightened and some elated to see their beloved. Either way, it should be an eventful reunion.

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Such overwhelming sadness. A deep, old sadness.

And if he had called her mother, of course that made sense. Enough sense that, she felt, the muted quality of her powers here might simply be being overhwlemed by common sense.

It was good to know that didn't fade over time.

"Well, I was brought here to see a man named Kevin." She reached out to touch the curve of the tall man's cheek. "But perhaps that was not all I was brought here for."

At the brush of her fingers, Cecil's breath caught in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and tip his head into the touch; he wanted to imagine that she had always been here, that the determined effort of the past twenty years to forget had never been necessary at all.

He wanted to, but he did not. The effort to forget had been necessary. The Capitol had made it necessary. He looked at her, and made himself breathe (though the exhale shook). Why? Why was she brought here? They must have known who she was, who she looked like-- they must have known that he had not forgotten.

"Do you know Kevin?" he asked, and the emphasis made clear what he meant (that, and the way his voice broke on know) - he wasn't just asking to be conversational. He was asking because he could think of no connection at all between him and Kevin, no reason he could fathom that she would come here for Kevin and not him. Because it was not fair that his mother-- even if not truly his mother-- should be here, and not for him.

"He's my son."

The words, her powers, or possibly just her common sense told her that the words would hurt him somehow. Deep. Possibly deeper than she would realize.

But she would not forsaken Kevin, because he had already been forsaken enough.

Still, already, she was trying to find a way to sooth this man, as well. His face, his heart, she didn't want to break it.

It was not easy to render Cecil Palmer speechless. In fact, it had been suggested by more than one acquaintance in the past that it was not possible at all. This was not the case-- were they here, they would have seen themselves proven wrong. They would have seen how Cecil stood with his mouth half-open and his hands limp at his sides, and drew breath and drew breath and could not turn any exhalation into words, could not find his voice.

"...You have another son," he finally managed to say. It was hoarse and unsteady, behind a smile that trembled. "A-- a younger son. Right?" Oh, god, if she didn't. (He thought of Carlos in the Arena, with Kevin's hands around his throat, and his strangled plea of "Cecil--!" No. There had to be another son.)"Not me. It isn't me. I know that. But-- in Night Vale, you have another son."

He could not said whether he was asking her or telling her. He couldn't have said why this was so important - why it seemed so vital that this, too, be the same. That the person in Night Vale who had his name have one mother and one brother-- that their existence elsewhere prove that they were real here, too.

"I do." She said slowly, cautiously. Another thing that had been nagging at her was trying to bite free, and she couldn't quite pin it down just yet.

"Cecil, Cecil Palmer." Her slow, cautiousness was drifting away as she thought of her son at home. "He has a voice for radio...well, that's rude to say now, isn't it? He is fine lo-"

She paused, looking at the man in front of her.

"You sound just like him, actually."

"Yes," Cecil said. Because of course he did. "I am--"

I am him wasn't right, because it wasn't true. Because he wasn't her son. Not her son. He hesitated.

"...I am-- Cecil Palmer," he said, slowly. "Or, at least, Cecil Palmer is my name. I-- I am not sure who Cecil Palmer is, in the way you understand him. But I am Cecil Palmer in the way that I understand him."

He swallowed hard; breathed; continued. "And-- and you are, perhaps, not my mother in the way that I understand her-- that I understood her--" The correction sat heavy on his tongue. "But-- but the resemblance is--"

He couldn't keep his voice steady, and so he let the sentence break off, to be lost in a soft, shuddering breath in.

Ah. That made as much sense as anything in this cosmic mess should. She smiled up at him, leaning up to cup his face in the palm of her hand.

"See, then? A fine looking man, with a fine sounding voice."

She had a feeling that she would not have time to learn all the differences between the two, but wouldn't it be interesting is she could? How often did you get to see your son, from two worlds?

He closed his eyes to the touch. He allowed himself to imagine that it was not technically a stranger's hand on his face, not technically a stranger's voice in his ears.

He allowed himself to do this only for a moment; one moment out of twenty lonely years, and it still felt like too long an indulgence to be safe. Reaching up to take her wrist gently, to pull her hand from his face, to open his eyes and look at her, felt like pulling out a piece of his heart.

"I hope," he said, "That the Cecil you know is-- happy, and healthy, and successful." I hope he is a fine-looking man, with a fine-sounding voice. "I hope that he understands how fortunate he is, to be who he is. I hope that, even lacking the basis for comparison that I, for better or for worse, have been afforded, he is... grateful. "

It was spoken with the finality of a parting, but he had not yet let go of her hand.

Thicker Than Blood Start

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