One Reason to Stay Here [VT/5/Lethe]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

Mace leaned over the chest-high railing at the back of the train, craning his neck to catch a little more of the winter wind. He didn't have any illusions as to why there was a barrier all around the train. He wasn't stupid enough to regret living, but he could see how someone would. It was tempting, though, or it had been. Outside of Ten. After Seven. Those were the times when he hadn't left his compartment, where the racing tracks would have been too much, their metal so unlike Charas' sword, and yet it called him home, too. He stared down at the blur of iron, had the strangest desire to bend down and grip it, just to feel the burn.

It was noontime when they pulled up to Five, and Mace was exhausted. He'd needed so much sleep after the arena, and the only way he was keeping food down was with the few remaining doses of morphling. They could get more - could have already gotten plenty from Six, but they hadn't. He was clearly not good enough when he was doped, but he felt worthless when he wasn't, because then he truly remembered. All the blood, all the loss, all the cold, and then the shaking would start again. No, he had to think about the warm tracks that would carry him further, but could always lead him home again.

His styling team set to work, gelling his hair, applying more makeup than was strictly necessary outside of the Capitol (and they would've piled more on if he hadn't started to growl whenever one approached with a rouge). He was once again in his ranching cowboy outfit, complete with boots that cramped and pressed on his fake toenails. He was learning how to walk like himself though, instead of swagger around the chaps. It wasn't quite so awkward. The real question was why he put up with it at all. He had his casual, Ten-hewn clothes in his compartment, but every day he let the stylists have at him.

He just didn't have the energy to spare to fight them. He had to fight himself the whole time he was up on stage, even in districts like Nine that meant practically nothing to him. Five would not be like; it was clear from the moment he stepped off the train. He tried to remember what Five did or made. He was sure someone had told him that morning, but it was gone now. This was simply the home of the previous Victor, of a wife lain in a snowy grave.

He still couldn't think too much about that last day. It had a brightness, a sharpness to it that brushed against the diamond world. He remembered her, though, from before that, from almost the beginning. It was a whisper, not a rumor but something to be said in the dark, about how she had lost someone to the Games before, too. As though that could somehow form a bridge between them. If anything, it had made Mace avoid her, because he couldn't talk about Larae. He'd barely known how to talk to her, when she'd been in Ten. No, he had not wanted to know Sundra, but he had watched her in the training center, at the blood bath. She had a grace and litheness to her that was attractive. Mace could see why Aesop would have fallen for her, even if he thought it was idiotic. The arena was no place for love.

But apparently it had been a good home for hypocrites.

No, he'd been through Seven already -- he wouldn't let himself regress. So he turned his gaze over the crowd, made himself really see the citizens of Five as they stared back at him. It was more subdued; no doubt Sundra had been well loved, and she'd done her District well, coming in fourth. But it was not the same as coming home. Mace bowed his head as the tributes' names were read, the spiel slightly longer than normal to incorporate Lethe.

And when it was time, Mace lifted his head to catch her gaze with his hollow eyes. He wasn't sure if he should shake her hand, or what he should do. The other Victors - and there had been very few between Ten and Five - had all been so much older. Lethe was his peer, and she was nothing if not ethereally beautiful. "Reckon we ought to do something," he mumbled, and hoped (and called himself a coward for it), that she would have the answers and save him the trouble.

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth

[SNOWFLAKES [Brik]]

“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see” Bastet Flail

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The deaf girl was never a fan of the Hunger Games or what they did to people. They took beautiful people with beautiful souls and killed them, and changed one of them forever. When she was told that her parents actually wanted her to go see the District 10 Victor, the one that played a part in her District Female's death, she didn't really want anything to do with it. Not that she held a particular grudge against Mace Emberstatt, it was just the fact that the way they showed off these people her age like prizes made her sick. It was almost like entertainment to the Capitol, and she didn't want anything to do with it.

After her parents badgered her with their moving hands, and with Bastet's failed attempts to close her eyes and not see the words laced on their fingers, she finally gave up and hastily walked out the door, walking to the District Square. Even from her house, she could feel the vibrations that came from the area in the District. She could feel every pounding of feet in her sandals, and she could feel a vibration in her ears from the noise that came from the nearby Square. She definitely wasn't looking forward to it, and she was actually thinking about going somewhere else, but then again, where would she go? Every store in the place was going to be closed, and she couldn't hide somewhere, there would be Peacekeepers on patrol. Shrugging, her sandals made a clicking sound she couldn't hear as she marched on like a soldier to the District Square.

When she got there, she realized that the vibrations in her feet stopped, and that everybody was still. Everybody was watching the Victor as he stood miserably on stage, looking as though he was back in the arena as she had seen on her subtitled television screen. This boy with black-brown hair, blue eyes, had taken a role in her District Female's death, and she knew that he was feeling the guilt of it as he stood on the stage and looked around at all of the people that stood impatient in front of him. Some people of the audience stared daggers at him, and if eyes were daggers, he would have been cut up badly.

Suddenly, the speaker onstage stopped moving his lips that formed words that Bastet couldn't hear or understand, and the people of the audience sprung to life, some of them leaving, some of them staying to see what happens next. Mace still stood there on stage, talking to Lethe, not knowing what to do. The crowd cleared enough for Bastet to get to the front, intending to talk to him and tell him something that she wanted him to know before he went to the next District on his tour. Coming up to the stage, with what Bastet thought was the families of the tributes nearby, she looked up to the stage where Mace stood and tried to speak, but her voice was partially messy due to her lack of speech therapy. "You shouldn't feel guilty about Sundra. You did what you had to."

((ooc; stupid post is stupid, but I don't care XD))

[Rosetta]

Lethe Turner

[/center]
The Victory Tour. Another way to make sure the Games were never forgotten. And it wasn’t even her tour. It belonged to Mace. And for some reason, that made it feel even worse.

Lethe sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, as her eldest sister, Sarah, brushed out her hair, pulling out a few dead strands here and there. Occasionally, Lethe would bring her hands to her tiny, rounded out stomach and rub it vaguely. Seeing this, Sarah clucked disapprovingly with her tongue. “Mel sent some dresses. I’m dressing you in black, Lethe,” she told her with a sigh, “but that doesn’t mean I’m keeping this up for any longer.”

“What are you talking about, Sarah?” Lethe asked blankly, staring straight ahead at the blank expanse of wall that once had a mirror. There was a square of lighter blue paint than the rest of the wall, marking the mirror’s former place. Her hands came off of her stomach and resumed tugging at each other in her lap.

“I’m not stupid, Lethe,” Sarah replied shortly. “Mel called and said you had to have bigger clothes made for you. Around the waist.”

“Oh,” Lethe replied softly, swallowing hard and looking down, heart pounding against her chest.

“I know, Lethe,” Sarah tugged gently on Lethe’s hair as she twisted it up into an elegant ponytail. Sarah thought herself a stylist, though she, like her husband and most of the people in District Five, worked on an oil rig. Mel had been unable to make it from the Capitol to prepare Lethe. Something about a surgery. “When you are going to tell Mom? She’ll understand, really-”

“No,” Lethe stood quickly, her hair falling back onto her back and walked the length of her bedroom. Downstairs, she heard the clattering of plates as her mother made breakfast. Lethe glanced down at the bump. It wasn’t large at all, luckily, but both Sarah and Lethe knew that wouldn’t last. Lethe patted her sweaty palms, anxiously, on her bathrobe.

“Lethe,” Sarah whispered behind her, “she won’t be too angry, really. You’re nineteen. I married when I was twenty-”

“She won’t be angry,” Lethe muttered, her mother’s voice ringing in her head.

“Lethe, darling, aren’t you too old to be single?”

“Bring me home some grandchildren, dear!”

“Aw, Lethe, isn’t he cute? Why don’t you go and talk to him?”

“She won’t?” Sarah asked, her voice thick with discomfort. Her tiny hands found Lethe’s shoulders and squeezed them, reassuringly. “You sure, Lethe?”

“Yes, I am!” Lethe snapped and instantly, the hands came off her shoulders. Sudden fury had shot through her veins at her sister’s inquiring. “You’re not Mom, Sarah! Just stop.” Lethe didn’t turn to see Sarah’s hurt expression, knowing it’ll only lay guilt heavy on her heart, so she turned to the chair where her black dress was laid out. Snatching it up, Lethe stared away from Sarah with hard eyes, grumbled out, “I’m going to get dressed in the bathroom,” and stormed off.

Once in the bathroom, Lethe couldn’t help, but stop after she’d let her bathrobe fall to the floor. The pale skin of her stomach had been stretched around a round bump, almost like she’d swallowed a ball, like the kind she could see her little siblings playing with outside on the front lawn through the window. His name has been Eric. He had had a cute face and lovely eyes. He’d smiled at her. He’d been kind to her.

It had been a whirlwind of a mistake.

And she knew it the next day when she woke up with his scent on her skin, that bitter, burning, stale taste in her mouth and a pounding headache. The memories were fuzzy, but they were there. She knew what happened. And so did the doctor when she went to him two weeks later especially after she vomited right in the waiting room. It wasn’t just morning sickness. The Finale of the current Games playing on the television in the waiting room just made her feel even more sick, even more so with the sick and healthy people alike around her cheering, crying out and making bets. She’d thrown up at the same time Sundra’s body had hit the ground with a dead thud.

“Well, good news, Miss. Turner,” the doctor had said after hastily taking the girl into his office after both her vomiting and realizing who she was. Lethe chewed on her lower lip as her heart beat so hard against her chest, she could hear it over the shouts coming from the next room. The doctor sat down before her with a plastic white grin, permanently knifed onto his face by other doctors. “You’re pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” Lethe had choked out, instantly feeling queasy again. Noting her green look, the doctor had hastily retrieved a bowl for her to throw up in again. When she was done, having wiped her mouth with a napkin, Lethe shook her head at the doctor, tears pooling in her eyes. “I can’t be pregnant.”

The doctor would’ve knit his eyebrows if he had any, but those were gone, so instead he, too, chewed on his lip. “Well, we have some other options,” he decided on finally, standing. A moment later, he had returned with a pamphlet in his hand. Lethe had taken one look at the word written on top and shook her head.

“I can’t do that,” she shook her light head. She was going to have this baby.

There was no time to find Eric. The Games ended that day. And for the next three days, she was preparing for the Victor Acceptance Ceremony, in which Mace would be crowned this year’s Victor and she, Lethe, would sit there among the other Victors and remember her own ceremony, remembering the horrible weight that had been placed on her head with that terrible crown.

Soon after, she was on the train home with one extra person. But, no Eric. And that left a pain stabbing at her chest. She spent the next few months wearing clothes far too large, blaming her morning sickness on the stomach flu and food poisoning. In one instance, she insisted she had swallowed a bug. Though Lethe could see the worried look on her Mother’s face, she didn’t question. Sarah was the first person to.

Lethe slowly slipped into the black dress. With its slimming color and the way it was gathered, Lethe appeared a lot thinner than she really was. A sigh of relief passed through her lips as she twisted her hair back up into the hairstyle her sister had attempted. She took a few moments to compose herself, smoothing her dress and touching up the make up on her face before emerging from the bathroom. Downstairs, her family was assembled in the kitchen, all dressed in their best clothes, munching away at food and chatting. They all fell silent as Lethe drifted in. Sarah diverted her eyes from her sister.

“You look lovely, Lethe,” her mother was the first to comment with a bright smile. She hurried forward to hug her daughter and as their stomachs pressed together, guilt pressed down tightly on Lethe’s chest, making breathing hard. When her mother pulled apart, she smiled, but Lethe could see the worry creasing her forehead. Lethe’s stomach lurched as she glanced over her mother’s shoulder at Sarah, but Sarah gave a tiny jerk of her head, her eyes still sharp as steel. Her secret was safe.

In the corner of the room, Camalia was perched on the counter, munching on some lettuce. Walking to her, Lethe scooped her up and placed her, calmly, on her shoulder, feeling the regular disapproving eyes on her back. Camalia licked Lethe’s neck in joy. “Well, we better get going,” Lethe’s mother said with a tiny grin, unhappy eyes straying to Camalia. A moment later, the entire family was parading out of the house, one entity, nearing the square which was already filling with people. Lethe’s mother fitted a kiss on her daughter’s forehead as Lethe began to draw away from her family to make for the stage.

The mayor nodded kindly at Lethe as she drifted up the steps and took her seat. She gave a quick smile as she fiddled with her hands in her lap. A second later, Mace ascended the stairs to the stage. For a flash of a second, Sundra’s face grew in Lethe’s mind and a particular memory of the Games, as she sat huddled in her room, watching. Aesop had loved Sundra. For a moment, Lethe envied Sundra. She’d fallen in love before she’d made that crucial decision. And she, Lethe Turner, had been drunk.

Eden. She would name the child Eden. Girl or boy, didn’t matter. The child’s name would be Eden. That was what Aesop and Sundra had wanted. And they were two people who deserved a child.

Lost in her musings, Lethe didn’t realize Mace had neared her. "Reckon we ought to do something," he mumbled and she could see the discomfort in his eyes. Pity filled her body as she smoothed her dress, hands pausing over her bump before crossing her arms.

“Just smile,” she told him, though she didn’t take her own advice, “act like you want to be here.” Before she could give more tips, another voice overtook hers, a messy sort of voice.

"You shouldn't feel guilty about Sundra. You did what you had to."

Lethe glanced around for the source of the voice and found the face of a girl at the edge of the stage. She recognized her immediately. Bastet. The deaf girl. Lethe knew who she was even if she never spoke to the girl. They both had a condition and Lethe had always felt some sort of connection to her. The mention of Sundra in that sense hit Lethe harder than thinking of her relationship with Aesop.

Mace hadn’t killed Sundra. Sawyer had provided the ending blow, but Mace had contributed. But, Lethe couldn’t hate him for it. She had killed her own ally when it had come down to it. She had just as much blood on her hands as Mace, yet it was in a trembling voice that she said, “Bastet’s right.” She brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. “She would’ve done the same thing. In fact, she tried.” Lethe sighed. The truth in her words was overwhelming.

For an awful moment, Lethe wondered what her child would think of her. Will her child see her mother as loving, kind person?

Or will her child see her as the same monster everyone knew she was?[/color][/size][/blockquote]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

He'd never been very good at forced social interactions. In fact Mace hadn't gotten much practice with formality at home, except for when Elon had taught it to the children. Etiquette was such a bizarre waste of time; he would've preferred to have met the creator in the arena than any of the other tributes. At least he was now getting some use of those lessons. He managed to eat his food with silverware (although not usually the correct utensil), and held his posture when greeting Mayors, Victors, dignitaries. But it was moments like this when he was at a loss. How was he, or Elon, to know what to say or how to act as a Victor?

So he fell back on what he did best - letting others take the lead. Smile? They clearly had a lot to learn about each other. When it came down to it, Mace hadn't been able to watch much of the last games, after Larae had gone. He resolved then to at least watch the reel of Lethe - he was certain he could get one focusing on her alone - and see what had pushed her to the end. She was quick on her feet, and he admired that, especially at this particular junction. He followed Lethe's gaze down to the blonde girl, whose gaze was intimidatingly intelligent. He definitely would not have picked her for the source of the statement, and his dead eyes flickered back to Lethe to check, before he inclined his head.

"I did not like to see her die," he said, because it was true, because it was better than an explanation or an apology. On the one hand he appreciated her words, and on the other, he knew it was not this girl, not Lethe, who could absolve him of that death. "Bastet." He tested the name in his mouth, found it odd but suitable. He gave her one more nod before opening up his palm behind Lethe, indicating the door.

He wanted to go inside, to leave the prying eyes of the crowd, the sympathy and understanding and knowing in Bastet's gaze. "We all tried, but only one of us had to live." Like it was burden, because surviving the Games was to lose on so many different levels. He understood that now.

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth