The Touch of the Frost // [Standalone]

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

Mace had done well during the 62nd, which is to say, he had not obsessively tracked them (as he had in the previous two), or ignored them entirely (as he had in the 58th). There was no point in either approach. Burying his head in the sand had only meant a more raw grief, and following every slice of every blade had ribboned his heart. No, it was balance that was key: watching just enough to know, not enough to be torn asunder. He had heard about Lydie's death from her stylists, and then watched the recap. It had been enough. But Damion had been in the arena much longer, and so every day Mace caught some live footage, even if he didn't follow every step.

The trouble was that he had been stupid enough to hope. He'd seen just enough to know that Damion had true, loyal allies, to watch him behave recklessly around a wine casket, to admire his growing mastery of his weapon. But it wasn't not enough against the shattered career alliance, not enough by far since the Capitol was still morning for the Dempsey girl. And he hadn't killed Aria, like Mace had suggested, siblings always being the strongest pairs in the hearts of Panem.

But he had tried.

He'd been with Julian, quiet and removed, when the call came down from the Ten apartments. The elevator ride had stretched into eternity by the time the doors opened to the gaunt faces of Olive and Damion's stylist. The television blared commentary on Damion's odds, dwindling by the second. Mace growled at his counterparts, brushing by them both to take the prime middle seat on the couch. He rested his elbows on his knees, steepled his fingers, forcing them upright to keep the shivering at bay.

And then he watched, or sort of watched. His mind wandered away, to a place where he could throw one of Larae's knives into Peridot's eye, arch Charas' longsword through through the Wolfe girl, twist the blades out of the hands of Wednesdae. The comfort warmed him, if only for a moment, before Aria drew a clean cut along the back of Damion's head. The cameras focused so tightly on his face that all of Panem could see the moment when his eyes glazed over, the light fading.

Mace's fingers slipped, his posture broken as Damion chuckled, drawing himself along the sword. Mace shuddered, the cold coiling around his spine, and silently conceded several things:

Damion was going to die.

Ten would have to wait another year for a chance at a better mentor.

Damion was far more courageous than he'd ever been.

There would be hell to pay in the district for this.

And he wanted to make someone pay.

He was going to find a road to retribution.

There was something worse about witnessing Damion harnessing death than watching Elon be sung to sleep. It was with courage, and stubbornness, and life that Damion would leave this world. He was a soldier on the battlefield, ready to march on. Elon had loved and been loved, but he had been ready to meet his maker. Not Damion. Mace watched to see - because he half-hoped and half-believed - that Damion would be able to harness Death itself. That moment did not come, and neither did Mace's rage extinguish. But there was something that needed to be done before he asked Julian to spar with him.

Mace glanced at Olive. She gave him a curt nod before standing to shut the door and muffle the sound. Mace bowed his head, his fingers in fists against his stomach. He took a moment to find his voice, the baritone gravelly in his throat. "I am stretched on your grave, and I'll lie here forever..." he found the melody line, and began to hum it, even though he knew the lyrics as he knew his own heart. He hummed until Olive joined in, and then the stylist, until he felt his throat crack with the effort, the shaking wobbling the notes. In the silence that followed, he said goodbye to the bravest set of tributes he had yet mentored, and his grey eyes glittered with a promise of vengeance.