thecapitol | My spirit aches...

WHO| Wyatt and all the insomniacs.
WHAT| Avoiding sleep.
WHERE| The Lounge
WHEN| One night, so late one might call it early, before the crowning.
WARNINGS| Some talk of nightmares, but nothing too terrible.

Night time was the worst. While the sun was up, while he had people and things to distract him, he could push the bulk of his troubles to the back of his mind. But at night, once things had gone quiet and he was alone with nothing but the sound of his own thoughts, they would all come rushing back.

Alcohol helped - took off the edge - but there wasn't a drink strong enough to stop the nightmares. The images that haunted him once his eyes finally closed.

Faces taunting. Sometimes Dora, sometimes Neeshka. Howard. Max. Sometimes a combination. At once beautiful and terrible. Dead and alive. Screaming. Whispering. Blaming and crying. 'Why didn't you do more?' 'Why didn't you save us?'

Sometimes, trying to put sleep off, he would pace for hours, to and fro across the floor of his room. Others he would flee into the training room, throwing knives until his arm burned and his back was sore. Tonight...

Tonight, he sat in the Lounge, a cup of black coffee, steaming gently on the table beside him. His chair turned out so he could lean over a trash can. In one hand he held a lump of dark wood, vaguely familiar in size and shape. In the other, was a small dinner knife.

Painstakingly, he worked the latter against the former. The point digging and turning, putting the finishing touches on a pair of tiny eyes.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Jay, wearing the most ridiculous frilly nightgown this side of steampunk cosplay traditions, has sleepily wandered into the Lounge, in search of a nightcap. He's not been sleeping well at all, between homesickness and longing for Mara and Raimut (it's surprisingly hard to fall asleep on his own, alone in his bed) and the horrible, nagging knowledge of the upcoming Arena and deathmatch. He's going to die, very soon, and the fact he'll resurrect does nothing to comfort him at all.

He wonders what sort of afterlife he'd be going to, before he's brought back to life. Would he go to his father's former gods? To his and his mother's Lord? Or will Raimut's underwater goddess take him in death, after he served her interests as a necromancer in life?

He really does not want to find out. He doesn't even want to think of such things -- he's twenty! Far too young to dwell on one's place in the world to come. So he wanders down to the Lounge to drink something strong and mind-numbing and hopefully pass out, dreamlessly.

He doesn't remember his dreams, lately, but he wakes up upset and shaking.

He spots Wyatt and comes over to watch him out of pure curiosity. He's a little too intimidated to start up conversation, but he tries anyway.

"Evening, dearest. Can't sleep?"

An obvious comment, but he's got nothing else right now.

Wyatt had noticed his approach, the way the strange young man seemed to hesitate and shy, like a skittish horse and did his best to look as non-threatening as possible. He just sitting up, in a slow, smooth movement, and reaching for his cup when he finally spoke.

"Evenin', friend." He lifted his coffee in a small greeting. "I could ask you the same."

Jay smiled at Wyatt, suddenly shy, completely unused to friendliness from strangers (especially ones as ... imposing as Wyatt).

"It must be something in the water," he said, lightly. "I haven't been able to sleep since I got here! I'm surprised I'm not the only one ... I've always ... tended to be more delicate than most."

One of his eyebrows twitched, but then Wyatt just shook his head.

"I doubt you'll be alone in that respect here," he replied. "'Specially as the arena gets closer." His head tipped, mouth curling wryly. "Somethin' about knowin' it's comin' just ain't particularly restive."

Jay sat down at the table and rested his chin on his hands, studying Wyatt carefully.

"I think they rather made an error," he said. "Reaping me. I don't think I'm suitable for their purposes. It'll ... it'll be painful and embarrassing for all. I'm no killer."

That was a lie. But he has never killed in self-defence or in hot blood or in a fight. What he and Raimut do -- did -- is different, at least in his mind.

His eyes were back down on the buffalo carving in his hands, watching the knife drag across the wood, but he was still listening and his head shook at that, a bemused sigh pushing from his nose.

"If they let us go for a little thing like that, son, they'd have a hell'ava lot less tributes."

Jay shrugged, helplessly.

"I suppose," he said. "Maybe they like the change. I don't think many children are competent enough at fighting to give ... a ... ahem. Good show."

Eager to take his mind off this depressing track, Jay switched his attention to Wyatt's carving.

"Does it help, dearest?" he asked, softly. "I mean ... the woodworking. Does it ... ah. Take your mind off things? Or are you making a talisman?"

He paused, hands opening a fraction as he looked down at the knife and carving.

"Bit'a both, I suppose," he admitted, flashing a smirk at Jay. Talisman. He liked that. "It gives me somethin' to do and it reminds me'a home."

"A blessing, here, no?" Jay said. His guard was somewhat down, both due to sleep deprivation and due to, well, not getting a feeling of danger from Wyatt. "I can't decide if the homesickness is worse than the fear of death or not, really."

Wyatt was silent for a moment, the gentle drag of knife against wood the only sound as he chewed over his response.

"Ya kinda get used to it - the death I mean." As much as he hated to say it, as much as it made his stomach boil and churn. "Still hurts, still not somethin' I'd choose to be doin'... but it jus' happens so often..."

His head tipped.

"Home though, that's a hurt they can't take away."

Jay watched Wyatt carve, finding it soothing, almost hypnotic. Like watching the sea roll against the shore.

"I've seen a lot of death," he finally admitted, despite some misgivings. But hell, Wyatt seemed like a compassionate sort and he did not have to specify which end of death he'd seen, did he? "But not ... not like this. Death may be a ..." he paused here, then cleared his throat. "Death is ... viewed as a blessing and a gift, by some, but ... honestly, darling, this is the first time I've seen ... people celebrate it precisely like this."

He tried very hard to keep his tone neutral, so he would have plausible deniability should the Capitol overhear. He hoped like hell Wyatt would catch on to what he actually meant. Wyatt seemed like a good ally to have, in this place. Maybe even better than the Initiate.

"Ain't the first time it's been done," he replied softly, head tilting as his thumb rubbed over his work, wiping away dust and small curls of wood.

He thought of Max, being a gladiator in his Rome long before it had ever become the style for the Capitol.

"But it certainly ain't common."

My spirit aches...

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject