Tonight I'm Gonna Bury // [Mace/Opal]
Nov 16, 2015 17:22:19 GMT -5
Post by admin kay on Nov 16, 2015 17:22:19 GMT -5
a note from the desk of
Mace Emberstatt
when you never thought that it could ever get this tough,of District Ten
that's when you feel my kind of love
He hadn’t felt nauseated in the airship to the 70th arena, but then, he hadn’t been journeying to face his own ghosts. Every bank and roll of the ship turned his stomach, dampened his resolve. More than once he reached out either to take his companion’s hand or brace her from a steep turn. But she wasn’t Saffron or Julian or one of his children. Every time he reached, he retracted his hand, empty.
“Kinda strange, the way they’ve been pairing us off,” he said after one aborted attempt to steady Opal Earnest. He rubbed his palms together, more for the excuse of doing something, than to generate heat. The words doubled back to his ears, registering. “Not that I’m complainin’, mind you. Just strange. Like they’re keeping us on our toes. You ain’t been back to your arena yet, have you?”
He didn’t ask about Potato’s. He could feel the answer in his frozen bones.
They bumped and skidded to a stop, the portholes in the airship filled with snowy white. Mace shuddered once, violently, even before the doors opened to admit them to the visitor’s center. He tugged his grey beanie more tightly over his ears. It was the one concession his styling team had allowed. The rest of his outfit had been determined by some higher authority, a replica of his uniform, tailored for his changed figure. He was only very slightly taller than he’d been at eighteen, but his body shape had changed dramatically. Even with the recent weight loss, he was still a good deal heavier around the middle, his shoulders more broad and sculpted. The new uniform fit him snugly, even handsomely. Even if he had wanted to wear his bloodied uniform, it was on display in the museum.
It was one of the first displays they passed. He walked alongside Opal, slowing his pace to match hers. Surrounding them marched an entourage of Peacekeepers, stylists, some lucky Capitolite contest winners and a full camera crew. The crew wanted him to scowl, to darken his grey eyes to the color of storm clouds. Mace did his best to look impassive. It was the saddest sort of rebellion.
He would not have agreed to this outing only to please them. He had something he needed in the snowy arena, and he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of manipulating all of him.
They walked along a tunnel of displays: a few other torn and trampled uniforms, an entire wall of weapons (none of his own), a rendering of a cave with the flora highlighted, particularly the mushrooms. It was all just a taste, a preparation for what lay beyond the double steel doors at the end of the hall.
Mace hauled his zipper up to his chin and then nodded to Opal. “Might want to do the same. I ain’t never been so cold as I was in this arena.” He lifted the hood of his jacket just as the doors opened. The Peacekeepers trudged into the snow drift first, followed by the crew, and then it was their turn.
He could have fogged a full length mirror, so heavy and wet were his breaths. Don’t let fear be what your children see. Julian would have gone first, distracting the cameras with his glinting blue eyes and easy manners. He would have parted the snow like the sea. Mace clenched his hands. His husband had been forever trying to keep him in shape, to build strength. Today, he just had to find it.
His first step back into the arena was as hard to take as the one had been when he left the suite that they’d shared.
The fresh snow gave way beneath his boot. The visitor’s center opened directly into a replica of the Cornucopia. In fact he’d just stepped off his own podium, more or less imitating his own movements twelve years prior. The array of podiums had been updated with better lighting and plaques for each of the tributes. The Capitolite contest winners spread out, gasping over Dysis Admea’s plate. He didn’t understand why, but over the years Dysis had become a popular figure from his Games. Why she hadn’t been in the first place – fix your aim or harden your heart – escaped him.
He stood still enough for the cameras to capture him staring at the imposing shadow of the cornucopia itself. It was here that he killed two women – Zinnia and Alliance – in the bloodiest first day of any Games. Of all the things he’d collected that day, he still could remember the triumph that came with claiming Larae’s throwing knives.
He drummed his fingers along his belt buckle. The Capitolites trampled between the nine grave markers, taking photos and reading the plaques. He waited until Opal was close to whisper beneath the fall of wet snow, “come with me.”
Together they walked around the Cornucopia, in its shadow. He was well and truly shivering by then, the clothing providing little barrier between his body and the breath of death.
“There’s something –,” he started, pausing for a shiver to work its way up his spine. “I gotta do. It’s this way.” He inclined his head outward from the circle of the cornucopia, into the storm. “You coming?”
“Kinda strange, the way they’ve been pairing us off,” he said after one aborted attempt to steady Opal Earnest. He rubbed his palms together, more for the excuse of doing something, than to generate heat. The words doubled back to his ears, registering. “Not that I’m complainin’, mind you. Just strange. Like they’re keeping us on our toes. You ain’t been back to your arena yet, have you?”
He didn’t ask about Potato’s. He could feel the answer in his frozen bones.
They bumped and skidded to a stop, the portholes in the airship filled with snowy white. Mace shuddered once, violently, even before the doors opened to admit them to the visitor’s center. He tugged his grey beanie more tightly over his ears. It was the one concession his styling team had allowed. The rest of his outfit had been determined by some higher authority, a replica of his uniform, tailored for his changed figure. He was only very slightly taller than he’d been at eighteen, but his body shape had changed dramatically. Even with the recent weight loss, he was still a good deal heavier around the middle, his shoulders more broad and sculpted. The new uniform fit him snugly, even handsomely. Even if he had wanted to wear his bloodied uniform, it was on display in the museum.
It was one of the first displays they passed. He walked alongside Opal, slowing his pace to match hers. Surrounding them marched an entourage of Peacekeepers, stylists, some lucky Capitolite contest winners and a full camera crew. The crew wanted him to scowl, to darken his grey eyes to the color of storm clouds. Mace did his best to look impassive. It was the saddest sort of rebellion.
He would not have agreed to this outing only to please them. He had something he needed in the snowy arena, and he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of manipulating all of him.
They walked along a tunnel of displays: a few other torn and trampled uniforms, an entire wall of weapons (none of his own), a rendering of a cave with the flora highlighted, particularly the mushrooms. It was all just a taste, a preparation for what lay beyond the double steel doors at the end of the hall.
Mace hauled his zipper up to his chin and then nodded to Opal. “Might want to do the same. I ain’t never been so cold as I was in this arena.” He lifted the hood of his jacket just as the doors opened. The Peacekeepers trudged into the snow drift first, followed by the crew, and then it was their turn.
He could have fogged a full length mirror, so heavy and wet were his breaths. Don’t let fear be what your children see. Julian would have gone first, distracting the cameras with his glinting blue eyes and easy manners. He would have parted the snow like the sea. Mace clenched his hands. His husband had been forever trying to keep him in shape, to build strength. Today, he just had to find it.
His first step back into the arena was as hard to take as the one had been when he left the suite that they’d shared.
The fresh snow gave way beneath his boot. The visitor’s center opened directly into a replica of the Cornucopia. In fact he’d just stepped off his own podium, more or less imitating his own movements twelve years prior. The array of podiums had been updated with better lighting and plaques for each of the tributes. The Capitolite contest winners spread out, gasping over Dysis Admea’s plate. He didn’t understand why, but over the years Dysis had become a popular figure from his Games. Why she hadn’t been in the first place – fix your aim or harden your heart – escaped him.
He stood still enough for the cameras to capture him staring at the imposing shadow of the cornucopia itself. It was here that he killed two women – Zinnia and Alliance – in the bloodiest first day of any Games. Of all the things he’d collected that day, he still could remember the triumph that came with claiming Larae’s throwing knives.
He drummed his fingers along his belt buckle. The Capitolites trampled between the nine grave markers, taking photos and reading the plaques. He waited until Opal was close to whisper beneath the fall of wet snow, “come with me.”
Together they walked around the Cornucopia, in its shadow. He was well and truly shivering by then, the clothing providing little barrier between his body and the breath of death.
“There’s something –,” he started, pausing for a shiver to work its way up his spine. “I gotta do. It’s this way.” He inclined his head outward from the circle of the cornucopia, into the storm. “You coming?”
