The taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth

[dreadinquisitor]

WHO| Maxwell and Open
WHAT| Returning from the Arena, catching up/reunions
WHERE| Various locations
WHEN| Sometime after his death in Week 5 of the Arena
Notes/Warnings| Probably some generic talk of death; some purple prose, knowing me.




District 8:

Maxwell emerged from his room a few days after.

He looked no different from the day he'd arrived - baring not even a scar to remember it - but he felt it. An uncertainty in his joints that left his gait stiff. A weight behind his eyes as they drifted across the suite.

The touch of Death lingering, calmy and chill, on the back of his neck.

He eased into a chair in the dining area beside the grand windows, and he sat there for a long time. Warming slowly in the sun, listening to the beat of his own heart, steady, strong and true once more in his chest.

Alive.

Miraculously. Impossibly.

His mind turned over the memory of it: of lying beneath the sky, watching it fade to purple and black; of the frantic drum of his heart, the gurgling pant, of the silence that had followed... And he laughed, suddenly. A wry, sob of a sound.

Wherever had become of Corypheus, Maxwell hoped he'd been watching.



District 7:

He went, every day.

Before the arena, he’d promised to keep his distance from District 7. Promised he’d give the escort no more reason to think ill of him than he already did. But still he went. Knowing he’d happily take the mage’s anger in trade for knowing he was returned, as safe and whole as any of them could be. (From the finality of death. From the darkness he’d seen for himself. From the quiet.)

Every day he knocked. Every day he waited.

Never quite certain which was worse: the dread in the heartbeats after, wondering if a stranger would open the door; or the weight of the silence that followed, knowing the room was still empty.

Every day, he left again. With the beat of his heart a dull, aching blow in his chest. His gut sinking heavily, cold and pitted. Wishing he could say it was for the man he remembered, but knowing he couldn’t.

Already they were tangling up in his mind.

In the arena, he might have turned, forgetting, ready to speak, to tease, before he caught himself. Back, again in the Capitol after everything, he thought of losing him, and pictured first an empty room, a floor below.

Silent and still.


Training Room:

When he wasn't watching - unable to look away, needing to see their faces, to check then against a mental list at every opportunity like a Sister before lesson - he was in the training room. Josephine was gone. As was Lavellan. As was--

He didn't know if he would be able to make anything of more of this chance, but they'd brought him back, and they'd made clear the stakes at risk.

He would be ready, if it came. The Maker as his witness.

Comments

Training Room

[dead_black_eyes]

To say that Linden's been having a difficult time adjusting to sobriety is putting it gently. The District 6 Mentor has used for over a decade to cope with life's ups and downs, and this latest attempt to get clean is the most prolonged and difficult. He's been scrabbling for ways to handle his cravings, and they've brought him to the training center to do something he's historically shied away from: actually training.

Unfortunately, he's so out of shape and out of practice and form that he's tired himself out quickly. The punching bag barely moved when he hit it, and now he's off to the side cradling a sore, raw-knuckled hand. The physical pain distracts somewhat from the other things he's going through, but he should probably get some ice on it. He stands and almost immediately drifts into a Tribute he recognizes from watching the Games, but hasn't interacted with yet.

"Maximilian?" he guesses, trying to put his finger on the name. "It's something like that, isn't it? The new Tributes are shuffled around so fast it's difficult to keep track at times."

[dreadinquisitor]

He was exiting the archery tunnel, the last of the light and magic men fading into the floor as the door whispered shut behind him. How long he'd been in there, he couldn't even say, but the hair at his temples was wet and there was a muscle twitching rhythmically in his shoulder blade. (Both satisfying and painful at once.)

Thankfully or not, depending on one's point of view, as weary as the training had left his body, his mind was still alert and as the stranger moved toward him, closer, closer, too close-- he reached out to catch him.

"...Maxwell," he said, holding out his hand a beat longer, making sure the man was steady on his feet, then letting drop. "You'll have to forgive me, I'm afraid couldn't even begin to guess at your name...?"

It was a both an honest statement, and a question as Maxwell hadn't any idea who the man was.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden has spent years replacing actual nutrition with Morphling and alcohol; the result is a wasted, bony body that seems somehow underdeveloped and stunted. Though he's in his late twenties, his shoulders are narrow and his back curved. It's like he can't decide whether he's leaning toward being a rangy teenager or an old man, but either way, he is not robust and doesn't begin to look his actual age.

He appreciates that steadying hand, even if it's a vaguely unwelcome reminder of the fact that he looks frail.

"Maxwell? I knew it was something like that," he says, seeming pleased that he at least came close. "I'm Linden Lockhearst, District 6's Mentor. I won the 63rd annual Hunger Games."

Making him a celebrity in the Capitol, if something of a washed-up one.

[dreadinquisitor]

A celebrity perhaps to the Capitol and its citizens, but less so to Maxwell. He hadn't been raised in this place, didn't hold any of the awe for it as so many of them did.

His response, was more academic. His gaze traveling over Linden in curious measurement.

The (young?) man wasn't what he would pictured first as a victor, but he knew well enough that appearances could be deceiving.

"From the time before us," he said after a moment. "When they were using their own people, rather than reaching across - universes." For lack of a better term. "I suppose it must be a relief for you, and the others like you. All these changes."

[dead_black_eyes]

Most of the Tributes are certainly in Maxwell's boat, and Linden has learned not to expect too much recognition (and yes, awe) from them. They haven't grown up seeing his face on television, fighting for his life and then again year after year during the Games and on Victory Tours.

Thirteen years is a long time. Enough time for someone who had been strong and capable enough to win the most important contest there was in Panem to turn into a pale shadow of his former self. It's a transformation that is depressingly common, and as Maxwell meets more Mentors, riddled with addiction and PTSD, he'll likely learn this firsthand for himself.

"A relief?" he echoes, as if the word is an unfamiliar one that tastes strange on his tongue. He shakes his head, staring blankly at the man. "On the contrary, I don't like change. I like rules, and promises, and the knowledge that I don't have to worry about certain things. No one likes it when kids from their District have to go and... mostly die, but if they're playing fast and loose with the rules now, there's no reason they can't take it even further."

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell's brow furrowed, equal parts surprised and concerned.

"How much further could they go?" he asked.

It was already terrible enough, either the old way or the new; he couldn't even begin to fathom how much worse it could get.

"Surely there must be some limits to what they're willing to do."

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden shakes his head. "That's a dangerous question to ask..." he murmurs softly. "Because the answer is always further than you'd be happy to see it go, and it's always difficult..."

He glances behind him quickly; if the wrong people are within earshot he doesn't want to say more.

"There was a Tribute from my District named Titus. Some years back it looked like he was going to win his Games, but he was eating parts of the dead Tributes. He went crazy in the Arena and he was killed in an avalanche, because there are some things that even the Capitol is sickened by. In short, an insane, cannibal Victor was unacceptable then... but then they let Kevin win, and he was both. I never expected that to happen."

D8 Rooms

[unlikelyherald]

She'd learned a few things, during her time in the Capitol. A lot of it was still a wonder to him, and some of it she just couldn't stomach, but she was learning enough to know where to seek out her companions.

Making the rounds, memorizing the floors and where each of her friends would wake up when they fell had been something that had kept her mind off of the Games, at least for a little while. Now that they were starting to fall, her new distraction was finding them. She wasn't sure how the resurrection worked, exactly. She knew how much time had passed between when she'd died and woken up whole again only because someone had explained it to her, and the dramatic replays of her death were played whenever Cullen was shown to be at less than his best. Her other friends were starting to be added to that queue, their sad little group.

So she sought out Maxwell first. She'd spoken to Dorian's abrasive escort, the man didn't seem to think the other mage wasn't returning, and she knew how she felt about this situation. She knew Maxwell probably felt the same. She'd mostly been a bother, but when Maxwell was finally the one to answer her knocking the door, she gave him a smile, one that clearly masked the pain of the situation.

"I was sort of counting on you to keep an eye on them, you know."

[dreadinquisitor]

There was, just for a moment, a flash on Maxwell's face as the door opened. Something bright in his eyes that sputtered and died like a glutted candle, flame drowning in its own wax. A hope, there and gone; pushed aside as quickly as he could manage.

His smile no less dishonest than hers.

"I'm going to tell Cullen you said he needed a nanny," he replied, trying for humor, as he took a step back to welcome her in.

[unlikelyherald]

"Oh I'm sure he knows," Adella replied, moving past him into the room. She had the impulse for a moment to embrace him, but decided against it, looking around instead before turning around.

"Leliana and Josephine used to make sure he ate and rested when he needed to. Apparently while I was away he wasn't very good at either."

[dreadinquisitor]

The room was simple, and plain. Still more the generic shell the Capitol provided all the tributes than anything personal. There were touches of District 8 - the intricately woven rug on the floor and delicately embroidered spread stretched neatly across the bed - but the only mark the man had left was in the small stack of books, one still open on his nightstand. In a coat, hanging loosely on the door to the walk-in.

In the candle, unlit and waiting on the desk (familiar perhaps, if she'd been to District 7 recently).

He closed the door behind her, snorting a low, soft chuckle around the small pang that came up at the mention of Josie.

"I'm not sure he'd take it any better from me." He leaned a hip against the edge of the desk, arms folding loosely over his chest. "I used to tell him he was going to stick to his desk someday if he didn't uproot every once and while."

[unlikelyherald]

His room was more adorned than hers. Though when she wasn't spending much time there beyond for sleeping, she hadn't felt the need to personalize what felt vaguely like a prison cell.

She looked over the few items he did have, pausing to absently examine the books on his nightstand, before turning to look at Maxwell, a small laugh escaping her at his joke as she nodded her head.

"I could see that happening. It could take a lot even for me to get him away from the desk for an hour." It had gotten easier over time, of course, but she'd never even considered asking him to blow it off for a full day.

[dreadinquisitor]

"And considering how things ended the last time he decided to trust us, I don't imagine he'll be particularly eager to listen any time soon."

He chuckled and gestured with one hand for her to take a seat - on the end of the bed, or in the desk chair, whichever she preferred.

"...I am sorry though," he added after a small pause. "Not only was not there for them, but I took Dorian down with me."

He shook his head self-deprecatingly.

D8

[cigne]

Swann never rushes anyone out of their room before they're ready, especially not with so many Tributes who are being revived for the very first time, who aren't used to it. She allows them to wake up and take their time -- the only indication she'd been around at all are their large "Welcome Back" gift baskets on the bureaus, customized to each particular person's tastes.

So when Maxwell emerges, Swann is only steps behind, all smiles and bouncing, wrapping her arms around him from behind when she sees him, excited.

"I'm so proud of you!" she tells him, nearly as excited as if he had won. "You did so well, thank you!"

[dreadinquisitor]

He tensed, heart jerking to a stop beneath her sudden touch. His hands went white-knuckled on the arms of the chair, his breath catching in his throat in a lump. His heart jerked to a painful stop, and struggled to return, laboring uncomfortably fast in his chest as he shifted to look over his shoulder.

"...I thought so," he muttered. The humor was strained, but he was trying not to wallow. "Right there until I made of mess of things by dying."

[cigne]

She ignores his flinch, because as painful for her as it is to admit, they have to learn, have to accept that this is how it is now. He'll die and be resurrected and everything will okay outside of the Arena.

With a hand on his arm, she moves to the front of the chair, crouching down though she doesn't really need to. "No, Maxwell, you still did wonderfully. There are over a hundred Tributes, and only one can win. To have made it so far, your first time? I couldn't be more proud, I promise."

[dreadinquisitor]

"Well..." He suspected that she truly meant it, and that she was honestly trying to make it easier for him to accept, but he wasn't sure where to even begin with it. "There's that then."

He did try to smile for her, the corners of his mouth twitching halfheartedly.

"I do want to thank you, for the things you sent me. They did help."

[cigne]

"You're welcome, but they were from your Sponsors. Do you understand now? Why we have to do the interviews and the photoshoots and everything?"

Her hands rest on his knees, and she looks up at him with her head cocked.

"They really like you, Maxwell. All you have to do is keep being you."

She pauses and smiles, then sits on the floor, her skirts poofing around her when she hits the ground. She produces a touchpad and opens up an application.

"I didn't forget, either, you know. That I said I'd let you Sponsor people. Tell me what you want to send, and I'll tell you if you can afford it."

[dreadinquisitor]

It wasn't that he hadn't really understand why she wanted him to do those things, more than he didn't want to. Didn't want to pander, didn't want to pretend he condoned their actions.

...But he didn't have it in him to fight with Swann over it. Not when she was offering to help.

He went quiet for a moment, thinking carefully, fingers curling idly.

"They've lost my bow," he said finally, looking back at Swann. A cautious hope in his eyes. "And while Tabris is capable, extra food would make it easier for them."

District 7

[conifer]

Emily opens the door, a smile that's both friendly but guarded as she recognises Maxwell as a fallen Tribute from Eight. She knew that Jason would be angry with the thought of their Tributes fraternizing with those belonging to the other Districts, but she's of the mind that what Jason doesn't know can't hurt him.

"Can I help you?"

[dreadinquisitor]

For a moment, his hand hovered in the air, still curled to knock, after the door opened. Surprise, and a fast following, dismay, holding him still. He didn't recognize her, and didn't know of any reason why anyone else would be in Dorian's room. Unless,... they'd finally decided not to bring him back.

His face fell with his hand and he gave his head a small shake.

"No," he said lowly. "No, I don't think so. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, I was looking for someone."

[conifer]

"Dorian?" She glances at the empty bed, made up for weeks now while he'd been freezing in the wasteland of the Arena, then back to Maxwell. "We're still waiting, I'm afraid. And hoping."

She comes out of his room, closing the door behind her. "I only went in to check for bugs, not that I know what I'm looking for. I spoke with Mr Falxvale the other day, who mediates with the media about things going on here in the training centre, and it made me a little paranoid." She holds out a hand for Maxwell to shake. "I'm Emily, Dorian's Mentor."

[dreadinquisitor]

The relief was sudden and clear on his face, like a breeze across a still pond, casting ripples. The tension eased around his mouth and eyes, a breath rushing free.

"Thank the Maker," he sighed, stepping back to give her room as she moved forward and closed the door. "I thought--"

He shook his head, chasing it away, and smiled. Small, but handsome, and earnest.

"Maxwell." He reached out to take her hand, giving a warm, firm, shake as he introduced himself. "I-- was a friend of Dorian's, from before."

It was getting easier to say. A little less hesitation, the pang a little less sharp.

Taking his hand back, he blinked at her.

"Bugs?" He pictured beetles, skittering around Dorian's room, buzzing about and bumping into things in the dark. It was an image decidedly out of place with how - controlled - the Tower was. "I didn't know that was a problem here."

[conifer]

She smiles in return, soft and friendly. "I'm not sure whether you're very lucky or very unlucky to have friends from home here." It must be nice to have some sort of camaraderie - something she felt entirely without herself here in the Capitol, and which made her even more homesick for Seven - but it must also be so much harder to watch those you've known and cared about before even arriving here die in the Arena over and over again.

Emily nods, her eyes darting round paranoid again. "The media use them, to try to get scoops without having to get security's clearance over which they can use." It doesn't occur to her that he thinks she's talking about the organic kind rather than the device.

[dreadinquisitor]

"Both," he said lowly. "If sometimes one more than the other."

He glanced at the closed door, then back at Emily.

"They use - bugs." It wasn't unheard of for animals to be bewitched, but he'd never seen it done with insects. He wasn't even clear on how that would be helpful for them.

Unless their goal was to be annoying.

"How does that work?"