'Cause I'm just one of those ghosts

[dreadinquisitor]

WHO| Maxwell and you?
WHAT| Returning to the Capitol and it feels so... well. It has feels.
WHERE| District 8 and around the Tower
WHEN| After the start of the mini-arena
Notes/Warnings| Nothing really.



It had been weeks. The room had sat empty all that time, silent and still and untouched save for the occasional Avox, coming to clean. (As if they could wash away memories. As if ghosts could be discarded with the gathered dust.) Anyone who had been in the Capitol for even a short time knew that the longer a room was empty, the less likely it was that its occupant was going to return.

Smart coin was that Maxwell Trevelyan was long gone.

But then, one afternoon, without fanfare, the door opened and he stepped out, looking little different than he had the last time he'd left it. A little tired, a touch pale, but whole and alive.

That this was surprising, he didn't know. For him, the arena had just ended - in blood and fire, Dorian's scream, the scream of the thing from the trees still ringing quietly in his ears. He didn't know that so much time had passed. That he'd been missing for so long.

So he carried about his post-death business as he always would have done. Seeking out the chair by the grand, bay windows in the common room. Sitting with his eyes closed, face to sun. Silently chasing away the lingering chill of his grave.

~.~

Of course it didn't last. Ignorance might have been bliss, but it was also temporary, and before long the truth was revealed.

It was difficult for him to accept, to even know how to process. There was shock and a cold, heavy, kind of horror that sank and settled low in his gut. How close he had come-- how easily the Capitol wielded its power....

But there was one thing he could do. One thing he had to do.

Setting out, he went of search of those closest to him. To ease whatever concerns they might have had, as well as his own.

They were alright... weren't they?

Comments

[clotting]

"I shouldn't do this, you know," Temple says between directing the Avox to use Maxwell's funds for food for both the boy and the elf.

"Prior to the Never-Ending Quell, there were rules against Mentors purchasing gifts for other Districts. Then again, it isn't my money here, is it? It's yours." Still, a crinkle forms under those ruby-glossed lips. "I suppose there's no reason Eight should deserve to win more than anyone else."

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell wasn't if that was meant to make him feel guilty, but it managed, just the same. A small twinge, at any rate. He'd certainly been told enough times that victory meant supplies for their namesake district.

"...You were from your districts," he said gently. "And you didn't know the other tributes. We do. With such a change, it only seems fair that some of the rules would as well."

[clotting]

"The rules haven't changed for them," Temple says, dull and placid and restrained, as if she is too hollowed out to even feel conviction. "But see? I'm doing what you ask."

"Mommy!" comes a squeal from the hall. Temple leaps to her feed.

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell's brow furrowed, his mouth opening to reply-- just as Bailey cries. Whatever he'd been about to say was immediately set aside, and Maxwell stepped back to give Temple room to get around him.