thecapitol | Here comes a candle to light you to bed

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Here comes a candle to light you to bed

Who| Wednesday Addams and you
What| Second place is just the first place loser. Also she kind of hates the Capitol.
Where| D7 Suites, Sublevel 1, the Roof
When| A day after the end of the Arena.
Warnings/Notes| Standard macabre Wednesday stuff.

I. Wednesday wakes up in her room, as everyone does, and takes a few moments to get her bearings. She throws away pretty bouquets, bright and beautiful, and figures out how to change her holographic window into a dark night scene with a full moon and bare tree branches swaying in the wind.

Then she can only do what feels natural. She goes to her bathroom and brushes her teeth and hair, braids it into her two sleek plaits. She scowls at her closet, at all the sparkle and embroidery and color, but then eventually settles on the least embellished dress in there -- it's black and simple, but there's still rhinestones on the white collar, and frilly ruffles along the hem.

She's equally as grumpy in the common area of the Suite, where she's forced to watch herself lose over and over again on the constantly-playing screen. She tries to find food, but it's all sweet and colorful, and none of it even moves or has eyes or occasionally emits a burst of flame.

Miserable, she finds a kitchen knife and sits at the table with her hand spread flat, sadly playing hand roulette to try and make herself feel better.

She misses the Arena.

II. She didn't really know what she'd find when she pressed the very bottom button on the elevator panel. It seemed worth it either way, since it couldn't be worse than the brightness and volume of the Lobby or anywhere else she'd seen so far.

It's not terribly surprising to find what looks like a large parking garage combined with a storage unit, but it's at least sort of dark and dank purely by virtue of being so far underground. It's the most comfortable place she's found in her time here, so she decides to stay a while.

Wednesday can be found here most of the day, sitting in a chariot by herself, curled up with her chin on her knees, quiet. She's sure that she probably shouldn't be here, but then they really shouldn't have given her access, should they?

III. The roof is only somewhere she dares venture after dark, once the sun is gone. The flowers disgust her, but if she sits in the right place and faces the right direction, she can see the mountain range in the distance, past all the city lights, and that's sort of comforting to look at, with the moon hanging low over the far off peaks.

Mother would like that, to go up that high and moonbathe.

Wednesday thinks about lost travelers and those crushed in avalanches, and she feels a little better, running her finger along the embroidery of the cushion she sits on, murmuring to herself.

"Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow..."

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Alas, he only looks a bit mummified and has glowing green eyes. Really, though, most people would consider that unusual enough. He nods in response to her question.

"Ten thousand souls bound in one body. We act and fight as one...but the construct remains in control."

He can almost hear one soul laughing and whispering what might be 'for now,' but it was like trying to listen to a conversation in the middle of a wind storm.

She still seems satisfied with his appearance, another thing that's almost comforting to her. She's used to people who sort of look like and/or actually are corpses. All she needs is an appendage running around and she'll be happy enough to stop hiding in dark places.

"So what do all of you do now that you're stuck here without your emperor?"

"We train for the Arena."

Even if that didn't take up all his time. Even though he'd been built specifically for combat, and had maintained his strength and agility despite the gradual decay of his body, he couldn't train all day. Even he needed to let his muscles rest and heal for the next day, and that left him alone without any orders. They might as well have dropped him on a raft in the middle of the ocean; there were things he needed to do, but it wasn't enough to keep the uncomfortable nature of his predicament at bay.

"We were communing with our souls. They have been...quiet since we arrived."

"Maybe not all of them came with your body." Wednesday's tone is still that flat, emotionless one, but she doesn't mean to be unkind. She even looks vaguely concerned for him, because if all he is is souls, then it must be terrible to lose some of them.

Like losing body parts only without any neat stumps left behind.

"Can you get more souls? Will that help?"

He frowns. He hadn't wanted to consider that possibility, but there it was. He didn't feel incomplete, exactly, but he'd never lost a soul before. Was this how it felt?

"We consumed many souls in our campaigns. Even now, we still hunger for more."

Whether or not he could consume souls here was the question. He could kill a person, sure, but he'd always used the energy created by the sheer concentration of souls within him to draw in the new soul. That energy was inacessible now, so his ability to properly feed could be compromised.

...Was he going to wither and come undone because of it?

"Are souls what you eat? They shouldn't have brought you here if that's it. But I could probably help you find souls." She seems comfortable now, if still slightly worried about his ability to eat, and she's curled up in her seat, head leaning against the spot where the arm meets the back.

"Do you need special souls? Virgins or the evil or something like that?"

"We can survive on corporeal food."

So, no, he wasn't going to starve to death...probably. Not quickly, at any rate.

"We have always preferred the souls of warriors. Their strength adds to our own."

If push came to shove, though, any soul would do. He hoped he wouldn't be forced to prey on anyone unlucky enough to be near him when he was starved; he was a creature of noble origins, not some stray mutt living off scraps and rats.

"That makes sense. All the food I've found here so far is really bad, though." Her nose wrinkles with distaste, and it irritates her more because she's still hungry, having only really eaten fruit since she got back. She knows she can eat the other things, but they're so sugary. "Nothing has eyes or tentacles or moves at all. It's just... colorful and sweet."

She nods. "Can you eat the soul of the tree man that killed me? He won, so he must count as a warrior. And then he'll be dead, really dead."

"We agree. Some of the finest Outworld delicacies are best enjoyed while they are still alive. We have seen fish served with the heads intact here, at least."

He couldn't understand the wastefulness of removing the heads and fins, but he suspected that the fact that Outworld's seat of power had always been in the desert may have skewed his tastes. It was difficult to keep fish fresh en route from the ocean, so no part was ever wasted. Even the bones made for a nice broth the day after the flesh was eaten.

He smiles at her.

"We will do what we can. If we cannot consume his soul, then we can at least give him a very painful death."

"How can you play with it if it doesn't react?" To Wednesday, it's just bad manners to serve food like this, food that doesn't move or wiggle or anything. "Fish eyes are good, though. Have you ever have octopus when it's still squirmy? Or squid. They're both good."

Fish bones are good for fortune-reading and spellcasting as well, but that's more Grandmama's arena than Wednesday's.

She smiles back, and it's again that odd, misplaced smirk that contrasts too much. "Thank you. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Have you ever had oyster? The Outworld species has suckers."

Of course, it had to be eaten alive; it would spoil too quickly, otherwise. The flavour and potency of the creature outweighed the risk of choking on a very angry mollusc.

"You said you're familiar with magic? Perhaps you could inform us of any magic you come across here."

"Yes! But ours doesn't have suckers, it's just slimy and slippery. It's the octopus that tries to fight on the way down, especially if you salt it first." It's always fun to put salt on living creatures and watch them writhe, and Wednesday's heard that it can work with soy sauce too.

She nods, braids bobbing a little. "I will. But they told me that no one can do magic except in the Arena, and not always then, either. They said that the Capitol can somehow control any powers or magic that people have."

"Snake hatchlings often fight as well."

Admittedly, they probably didn't need to be alive, but who could wait to cook them? It was better to just slice open the egg and suck out everything inside in one delicious gulp.

"There may be other ways. Perhaps some device, or folk magic."

"You would like my Grandmama's cooking. No one can cook like she does." It had been terrible in the motel, with no kitchen and all they could get was from the convenience store. But even that was better than this place. She'd still had Mother, even if Father was temporarily losing his mind.

Wednesday thinks about it, raising one hand to hide a yawn behind her fist. "The way they described it sounded more like the things people were doing in the Arena. I think if Mother and Grandmama were here, they would still be able to conduct seances and cast curses. We don't shoot fire from our hands or turn into trees or the things I saw. Witchcraft is knowledge, so it's different, right? That's what I think."

"You said she is a witch, yes? We would be very interested in trying her cooking."

Magic had a tendency to bleed out in unexpected ways. His own telekinesis was a prime example of that; he was made to harness the skills and strengths of ten thousand dead warriors, but the concentration of their souls had produced excess energy that he could manipulate.

"Are you suggesting that only overt powers are being suppressed?"

"All the Frump women are, once they finish their training. But Grandmama is especially good. Her curses are inescapable."

She shrugs, because it's really just a guess. Wednesday herself certainly doesn't feel any difference, and she assumes she would if her witchcraft were taken away. "Maybe. I don't really know, and I don't know how to test it. I doubt they have the right tools to try and cast a spell."

"As any good curse should be."

He pulls his feet up and sits cross-legged on the ledge. For someone in the company of an open homicidal maniac, he feels very comfortable sitting on the ledge next to her. Having cat-like reflexes, as well as being roughly twice her size, helps considerably.

"We will keep trying to commune with our souls. We can hear them, but only just."

He looks her over, trying to listen to the advice one of his souls seems to be trying to scream at him. She's still just a child, and children need to be treated differently.

"...You seem tired."

Care for them. That's what it's trying to tell him. Children need to be looked after, at least a little bit.

"Perhaps you should get some sleep?"

Even his tone of voice conveys his discomfort with giving her this sort of advice.

"Maybe they just need some time to get louder again," she suggests with another yawn, and nods, swiping at her eyes. She's only been here a day, but it's already struck her that no one seems to care what she does, what any of the children do.

At home, she'd have been tucked in and sleeping hours ago. At home, someone would have read her a story. And if she'd fallen asleep outside of her bed, as she well might have done without Ermac's presence, someone would have picked her up and taken her back inside.

Here, she has little doubt that she would have woken up in this same chair with the sun.

Wednesday slides from her seat to stand and brushes at her face again. She doesn't notice his discomfort, possibly just because she's so tired. "All right," she says. "It must be nice to never be alone. Good night, Ermac."

She paces away towards the elevator that can take her back to her Suite, and she does feel desperately lonely, moreso than any other time since she came to Panem. In the Arena, there wasn't as much time to think about it, not when she was occupied with watching out for herself. But in the Tower, it's just her.

No Mother. No Father. No Grandmama or Pugsley or Uncle Fester or Lurch. Not even Thing.

Addamses are many things, but apart is rarely one of them. Now Wednesday understands why.

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Here comes a candle to light you to bed

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