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thecapitol2015-03-07 04:55 pm
dreadinquisitor) wrote in thecapitol2015-03-07 04:55 pm
The taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth
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.
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.
D8 Rooms
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.