the lovers and other major arcana ; maryn & flandal {95th}
Oct 8, 2023 17:53:15 GMT -5
Post by eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris on Oct 8, 2023 17:53:15 GMT -5
「 M A R Y N 」
Five years after her debut, Maryn Hale is a restless creature.
Her hands feel empty in the absence of control. She sits in her manor, surrounded by her fineries, and she hungers for the day when she will once more have an outlet to channel the chaos that churns within her. A leviathan needs an ocean, as a wildfire needs a forest to burn. The Ninetieth Games had been quite the spectacle, a beautiful dream she replays over and over in the quiet of her mind, but even that amount of carnage will never be enough for her.
There are days when she replays the clip of Parker slaughtering Celeste, following her instructions, proving herself to be the hound Maryn required — and there are also days when she watches as the young girl lurches on her skiff, consumed by a sudden burst of flames, by her own inevitable damnation. A corpse had been returned to the Lachlan family, but there is a golden urn on the mantle of Maryn's fireplace that tells another story. One with a dark and lovely twist.
Fit for a dark,
lovely soul.
lovely soul.
She stares at the artwork of a snarling bear etched on the gold, a beast made to be controlled, an homage to a girl who played her part well and saw her way out of this world in a flash of glory. The thing to recognize most about Maryn is this: she has no qualms with the district citizens having joy, or hope, so long as the moment it is ripped from them is filmed on camera for their superiors to see. There must always be balance in this game that has been played for nearly a century now. The prize is not simply a crown; it is the privilege to continue existing in a society that is attempting to cull your species.
That's all this has ever been, really. If you pick it apart, look at the truth hiding just below the thin skin of the thing, the Games are nothing more than a means to an end. The vermin in the districts committed their unforgivable crime many decades ago, and now their family trees are black and rotted and destined to be felled. There is no escape to their agony, only a delay that must be earned with blood. That is the birthright of all people not born to the Capitol. They are lesser, they are guilty, and they must pay the price.
In some way or another, victor or corpse, the punishment for their treason will always be delivered.
It is true that some rare citizens will know peace, will know love, will know security; but it is fleeting. Even now, a new Emberstatt has called forward to participate in the death pageant his grandfather won before him. Even if the tree earns its right to continue growing, that does not mean the roots are safe forever. Some would even say that being a victor is the worst of the two options: to die an innocent, or to live long enough to truly understand your place in the world. To watch it hate you with every fiber of its being. To watch it decay under your touch, your presence. That worthless crown is nothing more than permission to suffer for as long as you may breathe.
And just because you cannot be killed does not mean you cannot be reminded of your place.
♦
Red wine fills her glass the evening following the tabloid alerts. She looks at the images of a young man from Six, and a young man from Ten, and the compassion that is so vivid between them only turns the taste in her mouth more sour. Bitter. It sickens her, but on the dual edge of the blade, it opens her eyes to the treason. And isn't such a rare sight? To see two victors from two vastly different homes, hands clasped together, standing tall and defiant in the name of their love for one another. It would bring tears to a weaker woman's eyes.
But all Maryn wants is to make them feel small again. That's why she invites them to her estate for dinner less than day after their own debut, seeing to it that her table is filled with a bounty fit for a pair of kings. Neither of the men in question, Flynn or Andal, can owe their suffering to her. She had no part in the Eighty-Seventh, or the Ninety-Second. But as a Gamemaker, even if she is not currently performing that role, there is no illusion about the sheer depth of power imbalance between the three of them. She knows that she will not be refused.
And that's why she smiles with all her teeth on display when they are guided into her dining room, still so close to one another, standing at the far end of table where she raises her glass in their honor. "Please, see yourselves to your seats." The entire stretch of the mahogany wood is barren of chairs until the very opposite edge away from herself, where two simple seats are positioned for the both of them. She crosses her legs, cushioned by her throne, closing her eyes to savor the smell of flesh and the melody of violin strings as the two victors settle in. Covered plates rest before them, an array of appetizers spread out to make up for the wait for the main course.
Tilting her head to one side, a raven lock of hair cascades down a pale shoulder, and she fixes Flynn in her icy gaze first. "I do not want to turn a blind eye to your suffering, Mr. Garner. Two members of your family called forth in one Reaping, it's quite the horrible ordeal." She does not frown, her tone does not shift, she simply drags a silver knife across her seared steak and watches as a splotch of blood collects on the plate. "So consider my surprise to see you of all people electing to choose further suffering." It is not the intention of a lioness to ever play with her food.
"You came to me because your hands are tied, and because whatever I or any other Capitolite asks of you must be granted. That is your place." She swallows another gulp of wine, the maroon on her lips glistening in the candlelight. "I have called you both here for the only reason men of your station are ever called upon." With a simple clap of her hands, a dimming of the lights, her Avoxes performing their duties as directed — Maryn smirks as the glow of a projector forms a halo behind her head, broadcasting a clip of the admittance of their romance on the wall just behind them. It is soundless, a few seconds of film on a loop, but even then the affection they feel for one another cannot be denied. Now, she regards the both of them as a whole, like they so desperately wish.
I have called you both here for the only reason men of your station are ever called upon.
"To answer for your crimes."