thecapitol | And what do we say to death?

Entry tags:

And what do we say to death?

Who| Arya Stark & OPEN
What| Being revived for the first time has Arya thinking about death
Where| Training Centre
When| After she's been killed in the Caves, backdated to around 26/02
Warnings| None yet, will add as needed
Notes| Prose or brackets are both fine

a) Training Centre Common Area
Arya sits cross legged on one of the sofas in the common area, poking and prodding at herself. It's been several hours now, but it's still surreal to her to find that the wounds she'd sustained during the Arena have been healed so completely that there's not even the barest trace of a scar. She's a little disappointed, really: she'd have liked to keep the scars, the proof of all she's survived through.

...Except she didn't survive, did she? She tried to remember the events just before she'd woken up in the Capitol. She remembered the dim light of the caves growing fainter, the darkness growing and surrounding her, the warmth leaving her body. Then nothing. Was that what death felt like? It was rather anticlimactic, really. And it ran contrary to everything she'd seen of death before, the violence and the gore and the absolute indignity of it. In a way, she felt cheated.

She wonders whether her father and mother and Robb had felt the same. It was reassuring, if so. But then it would also mean that all those on her list would feel the soft lull of death too, and she wanted them to suffer. Perhaps killing them wasn't sufficient punishment enough.

Then there was her resurrection. She'd seen Beric Dondarrion brought back from the dead, but he had certainly not been in peak physical condition like she was now, and he'd made it very clear that he was the exception rather than the rule. Was it this easy to bring back her father? If so, why had no one tried? Was she the only one left who cared? Or did the rules work differently if a man had his head cut off? No, the rules must work differently solely because it's the Capitol. She glances around at the tall buildings and bright lights out of the window and feels hatred for this place seethe up in her once more. She hops off the sofa, storming out, unable to take being here a moment longer.

b) The Training Centre itself

There was only one god, Syrio had said, and it's name was Death. All men must die, Jaqen had told her. Those words are written in High Valyrian on the coin he'd given her, which she now carried as her token. She takes it from the pocket of the uncomfortable Capitol clothes she'd awoken in, tracing her words over the inscription, Valar Morghulis, before throwing the coin angrily across the training centre, where it clatters coldly on the ground.

She grabs a sword, a broad, heavy one, not the sort she'd use for Water Dancing, gripping it in both hands and striking at the training dummy hanging there. There's no technique in her movements at all, she's not really concentrating on training at all, she just needs to get some of the anger out of her system. Every time the sword strikes true she recites a name, something she's refrained from doing since she'd gotten here, knowing how much she was being watched, not wanting to answer too many questions on it by all the media roaming around.

"Joffrey. Cersei. Walder Frey. Meryn Trant. Tywin Lannister. The Red Woman. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr. Ilyn Payne. Polliver. The Mountain. The Hound."

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It's already been an exhausting day. Linden had forgotten just how slowly time crept by without chemical aids to take the edge off, and he'd also forgotten just how grating and stupid people could be. Talking to Sponsors has had him just restraining his hostility all morning, and instead of taking a swig from a flask or popping a pill to deal with every unpleasant sensation and emotion, he's been snapping a rubber band around a wrist that's already nearly raw from the cultivated tic.

In short, being sober sucks.

He's leaving the training center after a particularly taxing conversation with a Sponsor old enough to remember Lindens's Games. He's a fan, and Linden feels vaguely sick after rehashing the same ugly talking points for the purpose of encouraging tokens for Karkat and Clementine, some of District 6's younger Tributes. He's doing it largely for Nill, knowing her soft spot for children, and as he's passing the common area, he notices another young Tribute. He wonders if Nill's had time to fall in tragic love with this one, too; he saw her die in the Arena, of course, because part of Linden's job is to watch until it's over, no matter what, but they haven't spoken.

He has a water bottle with him. It's filled with cranberry juice, and it's not spiked. If Arya admires scars, she'll likely notice that he has a horrific one slicing across his throat where his throat was slit in the Games that turned him from a Tribute into a Victor. He's about to join her on the couch and ask how she's coping with the aftermath of her death in the Arena, but then she's rising and moving briskly and angrily toward the door.

He steps in her way; he's no force to reckon with, with a Morphling-wasted frame that leaves him looking like a stiff breeze could knock him over, but he is, at least, a Mentor. Typically Tributes at least know to recognize Mentors by sight, as well as the fact that they are more than just staff, they're celebrities.

"Wait... where are you going in such a hurry?"

That kind of rage is familiar to Phillip Gray as he watched the young girl wail on the training dummy with the anger of a thousand grown men. He'd been watching the Arena closely studying the fellow Tributes get picked off one by one. Children's deaths had the worst reaction for him, they hit way too close to his heart. Arya's was no exception as he, along with Panem, watch her skills refined as best they could. In the end, fate had other plans for the Stark daughter.

Carefully, the guard went over and picked up the coin for her. He wasn't about to ask what those names meant to her but they sounded like a list. People she cared for perhaps? Or people she hated? By the intensity of those strikes, he's guessing the latter. For now, he watches over Arya as he would've any child at the Pizzeria: welcoming and willing to help but allowing a distance between them.

Joel knows the weird feeling well, honestly. He's been through it enough, and seen enough people not come back, to understand the confusion and resentment it can engender. When she starts storming off, he catches her eye. "Hey. You hungry?"

There's no question or judgment in his voice about her behavior. Just an offer.

The coin would have hit Gary in the head on the way in if he hadn't ducked, but that doesn't stop it from grabbing his attention. First he tracks its path to the end of the room, waiting for it to come to a stop; then he looks back to see whoever threw it and issue the standard 'what the hell was that for' warning. About halfway through opening his mouth, Gary recognizes who he's about to yell at. He stops and his face pales.

Nope, he thinks. Not today.

Gary pretends he hasn't seen her and promptly goes for the treadmills. That's what he was here for in the first place, right? A relaxing run--getting back into the routine, after Arya had killed him. The memory is heavily repressed, although Gary finds that he hasn't been able to shut it down as well as he's normally able to do with things that upset him. It was all just so real, unpleasantly visceral and wholly unexpected, especially from someone as young as Arya. Gary's never met her--he isn't even sure he knows her name--but he's not sure he would have approached her anyways in the state she's in. Staring at her from the treadmill, watching her tearing apart a training dummy with some kind of feral rage, has fear curdling in Gary's chest. It's becoming difficult to keep running.

...Maybe he's over-thinking. Punchy had said that people acted different in Arenas; if he introduces himself again, on more friendly terms, maybe they don't have to be angry at one another? Or, more importantly, Gary doesn't have to worry about her finding and stabbing him in his sleep. This seems like something they ought to work out.

Reluctantly, Gary turns off the treadmill and slinks towards the weapons training area. He's trying to stay casual, with his shoulders squared and his hands behind his back, but his steps are delicate and his chin is tucked, like he's prepared to back off and flee at any moment. He can't even bring himself to get too close; instead Gary stops some distance off (far enough away to avoid the tip of that broadsword) and, with a hesitant sort of smile, tries to get her attention with a small wave.

"Hey! Uh." Gary loses his voice for a moment and has to clear his throat. "I think he got the message the third time you sliced the shit out of his gut, don't you think?"

She's charging from the door when he steps right in front of her, and stops abruptly, her feet skidding a little as she comes to a halt. She hasn't been in the Capitol long enough to recognise its celebrities, but she'd seen the other Mentors around the Training Centre, and his scar says in itself that he's likely to have been through the Games. She's a little jealous, she wishes her own scars had stayed.

"I don't know," she responds, feeling a little stupid at admitting it. "Just somewhere that's not here." She gestures around at the bright lights and gaudy trappings.

She carries on hacking away at the dummy, each strike echoing around the training room. Her cheeks colour when she sees Phil, knowing that she was being watched in her moment of weakness - although she knew the Capitol would have cameras in there, those still don't feel real to her in the same way - and scowls when she sees the coin in his hand.

"I don't want that."

"No," she snaps in reply, not even giving glancing at him. When she's nearly out of the door she pauses, turning back toward Joel and looking at him rather meekly. "...Yes," she admits. Mostly she's angry, but she finds that makes her hungry, too.

"This is your token, right?" Gray asked, "It's from your home. Unless you've started to reject that." He never talked down to children as if they were any less intelligent than adults, more so now that he'd seen Arya's assault. "I can keep it if that's the case."

"What do these words mean?" he asked, tracing his thumb around the foreign language with a sort of reverence that was more for kings than a fellow Tribute.

Arya stops hitting when she hears him address her, whirling around with the sword pointed straight out, as though she's agreed with her point about the dummy and is looking for a new target. She's about to say something, but the words freeze on her lips as she realises just who she's facing, and she just stares at him for several long seconds as she tries to process Gary being here. She'd tried not to think about the fact that he would have been revived too, the idea of the people she's killed springing back to life is not one that sits well with her generally. She lowers the sword, finding that the muscles in her arms are trembling a little from the sheer exertion now that she's stopped.

"I won't break it if I keep going."

Arya's observational skills don't let her down; what she assumes is correct, and she's correct to behave accordingly. It will help her as their conversation proceeds; though Linden is not a bad person by any stretch of the imagination, he is a damaged one, and it has made him strange and difficult and erratic. Being on his good side is a good thing, because he famously holds vicious grudges.

"I'm Linden Lockhearst, District 6. Victor of the 63rd Games," he says, to confirm that he's not just some creepy person shambling around the training center with a water bottle looking for vulnerable Tributes to take advantage of. "I'm almost out of juice and I was just going to get some more, so... if you'd like to join me, you're more than welcome to. It's not healthy to let yourself get dehydrated..."

"Figured. Tried a cheeseburger yet?"

Food is a universal constant with kids, Joel has found. He won't make her talk about it - no doubt it's the same shit they've all been through. He'll just feed her up.

She'd never heard of a 'burger' at all, but anything with cheese was always good. She shakes her head, a little of her anger replaced with curiosity, moving to follow him.

That's enough of an answer for him. "It's beef," he explains, leading the way out onto the city street. There's a good burger place nearby - Joel knows all the good places to eat near the Tribute tower. "Shaped into a round patty, fried up, with cheese and all kinds of other things on it. Slap it between a couple pieces of bread, and you've got a cheeseburger."

Arya spins around, staring daggers at him. "I have not rejected my home." Winterfell was in every part of her, even though the castle was burned and for all intents and purposes she was the last of the Starks - so far as she was aware, at least - she refused to let go of that part of her, even when she'd had to take on so many other names and identities in Westeros, and even here where none of it seemed to matter to anyone other than her.

"It's not from my home anyway. It was given to me. Partly because of the words on it. But they're useless here." She throws the sword to the ground, liking the clatter it makes. "Valar morghulis. It means, 'all men must die'."

Phillip held his gaze towards Arya, even when the blade hits the ground, "I wouldn't say it's not useless, people still die here, the ones that never come back from the Arena, or so I've been told."

However brief his meeting with Piers was back at the Signless' Crowning, the fact that he didn't return from the Arena as everyone else he knew cemented this. Death was still very much real, and worse,

"Y-you could almost say death is cruel here. It's supposed to be final for everyone and yet, here we are. What's your name?" He kept playing with the coin, waiting for the young warrior to seize it back.

That is a sword in his face. Gary doesn't have time to be relieved at deciding to keep his distance and instead increases it, hopping backwards with a desperate whirl of his arms.

"Woah!" He freezes, palms held out to discourage any further attacks. "Slow down! Christ. Um..." Thankfully his eloquent protests seem to have worked, and the sword is dropped. Gary lets out a sigh of relief and tentatively lowers his arms. It's only then that he bothers to look her in the eyes; Arya seems...almost as shocked as he is, honestly. Gary has no idea why that would be the case. Is this a good thing? God he hopes it is.

"...Right." There's a compulsive, nervous laugh, there, some vague attempt at trying to diffuse the situation before it escalates the way his imagination is taking it. "Well, hey, if that gets your rocks off or whatever, don't let me stop you! Don't want to interrupt or anything, just. Checking in. How's life and the family and all that."

Arya nods, a little reluctantly as there's a stubborn part of her that almost wants to be left to wallow in her bitter frustration, but then her curiosity at talking to a Victor gets the better of her, and she follows behind him a little more eagerly. "Arya. I'm with District Ten."

Wanting to be miserable is a very real thing in regards to the Hunger Games, and a natural response to the direness of the situation. Linden's quite familiar with it... as well as with the necessity of good distractions from weapons and survival paraphernalia.

"Arya," he acknowledges with a nod of his own, though he's seen her in the Arena and is aware of her name. "I'm sorry you're here," he adds, as hollow as that probably sounds coming from a Victor as he starts toward the center's lounge. He intends to stay away from the bar, but juice is a good compromise. There's substance and flavor without intoxication. "Have you talked to your District's Mentor about how to make the best of your time here?"

"Arya." She watches him play with the coin almost hypnotically but still doesn't approach to snatch it from him, feeling that she's been betrayed by the promise in its words. "It's just random if some people don't come back from the Arena and most do. It doesn't mean anything."

"That doesn't sound too bad." Actually it sounded amazing, but in a very childlike, prideful way she doesn't want to give the Capitol the satisfaction of knowing that she was excited about anything it had to offer, even the food. She's grateful to Joel for not asking why she was so upset, but that made her want to tell him anyway, even though she's not sure anyone else will really understand. But for now she just follows him out of the Tribute Centre toward the burger place, her stomach growling loud enough to give away her anticipation at trying one.

"Yeah, not too bad," Joel repeats with a faint smile, noticing the way she tries to underscore her excitement. Be cool, he can almost hear in her mind.

"There's a good place, just a couple blocks from the tower," he explains, leading her out the door. "You can get all kinds of stuff on your burger - almost anything you want. You like bacon?"

The former guard had no answer to that, other than what he had concluded on his own. They were all here to serve a purpose. What that purpose is, he's not very sure of it. But even then, Phil decided not to inflict that sort of thinking onto the girl now named Arya.

"At least to me...it means everything. Every day, I fear that someone I cared about didn't make it. That every moment still counts." He then looked at the coin again, stopping the silver dance, "All men must die, we just drop at different times. Your enemy may come back now, but, uh, who's to say they won't the next time you kill them in the Arena?"

Arya nods eagerly, glaring at a reporter that's hanging outside the Training Centre ready to snap them as they go past on their way out. "We used to have bacon a lot. Father and Robb and Jon would go hunting for boar, but we'd have to salt a lot of the meat for bacon, as it would keep when we couldn't grow crops or fish, with the ice and summer snows."

Joel nods, pointedly ignoring the reporter - and anyone else who might be gawking at them, quite frankly. He's been here long enough to know it's best to just pretend they're not there.

"You're lucky. Wasn't too much bacon anymore in my world. They've got plenty here, though, and you can put it on just about anything."

"Even ice cream?" That seemed too good to be true.

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