you can always bleed a little more.

My heart is a cathedral.
Widows, ghosts, and lovers sit and sing /
in the dark, arched marrow of me.

OPHELIA WEARS BLACK / SEGOVIA AMIL

﹙ chapter twenty two, act two ﹚

mentor's lounge, the playing inn.
july, 72 att.

                    THE BLOODBATH IS ABOUT TO BEGIN. All the channels displayed on the various screens around the room have been showing discussions and upcoming predictions; shots of crowds eagerly counting down on a large clock in a square, of analysts and interviews with Gamemakers. Now, as the final minute before the first cannon fires, it switches over to the arena, and the tributes waiting for the holographic numbers to reach zero. Twenty four figures on metal plates, already doubling over at the harsh cold.

                    All mentors must be present in the lounge. Whether they're ready for this or not, they must watch. A large screen dominates one wall; the mainstream footage. At first, the cameras do not pick up anything other than a dull grey and icy white, until the exposure is lowered and the arena comes into focus: a frozen lake, flurries of snow, and a surrounding forest for as far as the eyes can see. Mara can already tell thus is going to be a cruel arena.

                    Twenty seconds. Mockingly, there's a tally on one wall, automatically updated. The numbers for the Careers steadily increase, and for most below district five, it remains largely stagnant. Another reminder of her failure, which she chooses to blame on Odair, for stealing her sponsor. After the timer counts down, though, all bets will cease, and those investors will turn to sponsoring. And the full consequence of her weakness, of her ineptitude, will be shown.

                    Nobody wants to waste money on two dead children. Mara has failed, but she doesn't think it would make much difference if she succeeded ─── and then hates herself for trying to justify it. It's much easier to blame Odair.

                    Ten. The Careers ─── the traditional ones from One and Two as well as the boy from Seven, Romy ─── ready themselves, sinking into a sprint start. Some of the tributes try to copy the movement, but they're not as graceful, not as precise. Five. She turns her attention solely to Sommer and Oren's individual screens, drawing in her breath. Why is hope beginning to addle her senses? Beside her, Chaff doesn't watch.

                    His eyes are glassy and unfocused, stark fear alight in them, and no amount of whiskey from his flask can mute it. Many of the victors, she realises, are in a similar state of trauma. Even Gloss, who is always keen to talk about his victory, bites his nails and watches with an unreadable expression.

                    Three. Chaff's hand is trembling as he brings a bottle to his lips, and Mara is tempted to do the same. Cashmere reaches for a sachet in her pocket as her female tribute's dead face is briefly shown on the screen. Beetee is furiously mumbling under his breath and conversing with another victor; Devan Vinir has his face in his hands, watching through a gap between his fingers. Most of the victors, she realises, are not mentally here; some freeze up, some breathe short and shallow, some leave the room. Two.

                    They are reliving the past. Nobody ever really escapes the arena. One.

                    Zero!

                    "Ladies and gentlemen," the voice of the commentator fills the room, obliterating the dead silence. "Let the seventy second annual Hunger Games begin!"

                    And Mara is sent reeling back, to when similar words were announced in a tropical paradise. She cannot see anything other than the sea, the sun, and the sheer amount of blood everywhere ─── whether her eyes are open or not. She is afraid again. She is bleeding to death again.

                    Somebody is shaking her shoulders. She can't tell what they're saying; doesn't drowning blur everything out? "Mara! Wake up! Get up!"

                    Eventually, she surfaces, in the toilets next to the lounge. Cashmere, in all her brilliance, like the diamonds her district produces, is the one who's been dragging her up. Her makeup is smudged, and she catches a hint of dark circles under her eyes.

                    She thought she'd hate someone like Cashmere, the picture of the Capitol's regime and the one who got her drunk enough to reveal personal secrets, but she doesn't. "You had some kind of a panic attack," she says, wiping her sweaty hands on her low-cut skirt. "Finnick and I brought you here, but he's gone back. Come in when you're ready."

                    Mara does not leave for hours, sitting on the seat with her knees pulled up to her chest. The victor's lounge is in various states of panic, serenaded by the playback from the speakers. They're so loud, so immersive, she can hear it from here. And for all the time she'd thought she'd started to move on, Mara is still in that arena.

                    By nightfall, when she has finished vomiting into the toilet of the now very empty floor of the tribute tower, when she's finally ready to get into society for the next invitation, she finds out. Antonia, before she gets ready to go out, sits her down. The moment she hears the softness, she knows.

                    The escort gently tells her that Sommer, bitter and brutal Sommer, is dead.

                    The girl realised she was being hunted too late. It's hard to tell who actually killed her, Antonia says while Mara's breath runs short. The Careers banded together, picking them off one by one, and she never stood a chance. The camera feed is merely a blur, and her cry as the spear plunges through her stomach seems to physically pierce Mara's ears. Her heart does not break at the news. When it's already shattered, this seems to be more of a twinge.

                    She's as good as dead ─── and she's left her there, in the shadow of a forest she almost reached. The bloodbath ends after another ten minutes of manic fighting, and the screen dedicated to following her has yet to flicker out. As the last few tributes run away, and as the Careers settle down, pleased with themselves, there is yet to be a cannon fired for her. Sommer, on the fringe of the woods, manages to shuffle herself against a tree, but the cold soon sets in. All the while, she stares into the camera following her.

                    Silent in her interview, silent in death. After finding out that her mentor had given Oren extra tutoring with knives, she stopped playing the game altogether. Mara's failure is paid with her life and the knowledge that she will have to break the news to Sommer's mourning family.

                    There is a party to celebrate this. Actually, there's two ─── each competing to have more mentors on their guest list after the exciting, exciting day. Mara sifts through the pile of invitations, the paper rough against her palms of her hands, which are still soft and sensitive from the previous burns. She's invited to both.

                    "You will attend every social event you are invited to. Every single one, Miss Cayden, and I will know if you don't turn up."

                    As soon as Mara excuses herself from the first, tired and twisted in strands of grief and guilt, she drags herself into the second. But that doesn't mean she has to enjoy it. She hovers in the corners, exhaustion making her eyelids heavy, and there's nothing she'd like more than to go home and go to sleep. And maybe never wake up. She tries to stay away from the drinks, but everything is too loud, too bright without them. She'll cut back on it tomorrow, she reasons.

                    Antonia approaches her, thoroughly in her element as she laughs and talks and sips her wine with a sort of elegance she could never hope to achieve. She's clad in a deep violet, knee-length dress and similarly coloured wig, adorned in little gems shaped as butterflies ─── luxurious, even by Capitol standards. But she needs something extravagant like the reaping outfits to get attention, amidst the entertainment of the games. Mara, though she has grown to tolerate the escort over the last two years, will always hate her a little for being Capitol born.

                    Though Antonia had as much control over that as Mara being a lowly little slave. If she'd been raised in the Capitol, is this the sort of woman she'd be?

                    She can't stand the escort's pity right now, and moves to the other side of the room, towards the stairs for the rooftop balcony, where she can at least fill her lungs with the cool air of the night. Keen to avoid any kind of contact, she keeps her head down ─── and in her haste, she stumbles into someone, spilling cheap booze with her jerky movement.

                     "Gods above . . ." She says, setting down her cup onto the first surface she finds and bracing herself for the incoming verbal onslaught. "I'm so sorry. Here, I'll get───"

                    "It doesn't matter." Mara's brows crease at the lightness in tone. The woman ─── whose appearance seems so unaltered it's almost shocking in this sea of colour; a pretty face of blonde hair and brown eyes ─── is unbothered. She studies her cautiously, waiting for the inevitable meltdown. It's a lovely little dress she's ruined, pale white tulle hanging around her in layers, and the detailed flowers in the lace quietly suggests it's expensive. "I've always hated this dress."

                    Really? She looks nice in it. Far better than the painted peacocks milling about, at least. "Now you have an excuse to get rid of it." Mara says without thinking.

                    She smiles, dabbing at the slight stain with a napkin half-heartedly. "I suppose I do. I'm Lucy, by the way. How're you enjoying the party?"

                    Her mood sours instantly, and she remembers that she is talking to a Capitolite. Keeping up the pretence of an easygoing conversation is fine, but she will remain guarded around them. "It's my first bloodbath celebration." She replies tightly, all she trusts herself to say honestly.

                    It's better to lie by telling half-truths. Oh, if Avens could see her now.

                    ( She knows he'd hate her, hate the submissive little creature she's become. )

                    Recognition of some sort flashes in Lucy's eyes, and there's something she's never seen before in this star-studded land of skyscrapers: shame. Her brows crease and she shifts awkwardly on her feet. "Insensitive question, given what's going on. How are you holding up ─── Mara, right?"

                    She nods. "That's me. I'm fine, as always."

                    Lucy nods kindly, not really believing her, but hardly in a place to disagree. "I've never liked the bloodbath," she admits while they gravitate to the table of food, looking around with a small frown on her face. "It's not right to party for it."

                    "It's not right to party for any of it." Perhaps that's a little harsh, given that this woman ─── though calling her a woman doesn't quite fit; she's scarcely older than Mara ─── has been nothing short of pleasant this evening. But looking at the sheer volume of food just for this one party makes her sick. The image of Mercy and Alec haunched over the table back home, wondering if the roof will collapse today, chewing whatever scraps they've managed to find, unnerves her. Where does it go once the party is over? Not to the slaves kept starving, their children kept fighting each other in the arena.

                    Lucy hums, though her eyes dart around nervously, and there's a noticeable change in her voice. Suddenly hushed, she says: "I suppose. It's just the way things are done."

                    "Panem yesterday, today, and tomorrow." She remarks sardonically, no such fear of being overheard.

                     "I don't think it was always like this." Lucy murmurs, but both of them know it's a poor response. Silence hangs between them for a moment, then she looks back up to Mara, at a normal volume. "I want to sponsor your tribute Oren."

                    She utterly failed Sommer; whose body must have been brought back to the Capitol by now. Prettied up and packaged to be sent back to her family. Guilt gnaws at her while she irons out the details for this arrangement. But there is a chance, however slim, that she could bring Oren, at least, home. That's the cruelty of the system: measured hope. There's a chance, right? It's what keeps her playing the game long after it was supposed to be over.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

city circle, the capitol.
july, 72 att.

                    EVERY PART OF HER ACHES. She's not sure how she ended up here, in a circle of giggling, drunk Capitolites, and fights to keep the smile etched onto her features. The rooftop balcony was supposed to be an escape of sorts, but she walked right into the lion's den ─── drinking games. Some silly game where they divulge personal secrets or take shots instead. And since Mara doesn't want them knowing anything about her, she's been sitting cross-legged and empties a shot glass whenever she doesn't want to answer a question.

                    Which, given the topics of conversation, is often. How she wishes she'd left after showing her face for a little while and left after Lucy had sent the money. But it's fear that keeps her in place, even if every second in society may increase her desirability.

                    After a few rounds, one of them stumbles off. Most of them followed to go watch him vomit over the roof, heralded by applause. Even now, as he deliriously convulses, they cheer. It quietly sickens her, and makes all of what she's drunk threaten to come back up. Just a little longer, she tells herself. The party won't last forever.

                    Myrsine, the only one she vaguely knows, sits next to her, a stupid smile on her face. "You've been quiet, Maria."

                    Mara breathes deeply through her nose, willing herself not to punch this woman in the face. It'd be easy, and the way that she pesters her makes it tempting. But there are standards Antonia has lectured her on. Certain things she can't do or say. "First time playing. I'm nervous."

                    "Don't be!" She's about to sling an arm around her when she realises what she's doing and, with a hint of distaste, moves a few inches away. "Even if you're district, we're all still friends. Trust me."

                    That's the first joke that's made her want to laugh all evening.

                    The spectacle of the Capitolite throwing up ─── they're cheering the name Lux, but that could easily be a nickname ─── has died down, and they're back to the game, all standing in a haphazard circle.

                    "Since you couldn't stomach it, darling, you ask the next one." Some woman tells him. They've been attached since she got here and even now, she clutches his arm like it's the only thing keeping her from toppling over in her platform shoes. She thinks they might be married, given the ring on the woman's finger, but Mara's quickly learnt not to assume fidelity among this so-called high society.

                    Some of them are so drugged up, though, that the name almost ironically suits them.

                    He grins, pupils strangely dilated under the lights. "Never, never have I ever . . . gone to a strip club."

                    Almost all of them, including her, tilt their heads back and drink. Myrsine, the only one who doesn't, laughs self-consciously, panicked for a moment. The moment they start to glance at her, she physically points at Mara. "I wouldn't have taken you for the sort to go there."

                    Mara shakes her head, confused, but the rest of them erupt into laughter. The teasing starts and doesn't stop, and she wants to crawl away into a dark hole and never come back. She's not even sure what she's embarrassed about ─── all the little glasses have combined into several normal ones, and her head swims.

                    "What's this about?" A voice she recognises asks ─── it's the Capitolite who was in the training gymnasium only a day ago. She invites herself into the game, but leaves for a moment, searching for something. And she finds it, dragging Finnick Odair with her, leaving nail marks on the skin of his exposed arms.

                    The one who threw up earlier, Lux, answers: "Maria here has accidentally admitted she went to a strip club!"

                    Lucretia gives her a distasteful look, not out of their little pattern, but Mara doesn't have the will to meet it. She's been whittled down by the party and something weak and hollow remains. Back in the tribute tower, that was her place, but this is Lucretia's. Finnick doesn't say anything, but he doesn't seem to believe it either, fixing her with a curious gaze and raising an eyebrow. Somehow his judgement is worse than all theirs combined.

                    "I won't lie, I'm just here for the drinks." She says, raising her half-empty shot glass with a nervous laugh. "I have no idea how this game works."

                    Some of them don't believe her, but the one named Arachne croons delightedly. "Oh, she's so precious!" Her face, hardly visible for all the glitter painted onto it, shines in the moonlight blindingly. "Maria, you don't know how this works? You drink if you have done these things."

                    "Her name is Mara." Finnick cuts in, but goes largely ignored for once.

                    She makes her eyes comically wide. "Oh. Well." She bites her lip awkwardly. What is most in character for the persona she's started to put on for this game? What does she do with them waiting for a reaction? Panicking, she finishes the rest of her shot to give herself time, and it makes her a little more eased. "I'm already drunk, so who cares?"

                    They like that. She hates it. So does Lucretia, with the filthy glare she sends her. She hasn't forgotten how Mara stared her down last night, and whispers something in Finnick Odair's ear. He nods, stiffly at first, but smooths the movement out and whispers something back.

                    The game continues, and now that she knows how to play, she's boring by their standards. And with the attention not on her, it invariably goes to the other mentor present. He is much more suited to this than her, and doesn't break a sweat as he's quizzed further on all the shots he takes. Lucretia is practically on top of him, clawing at him, and he seems quite pleased with the arrangement, though his eyes tend to dart over to her. But by all other accounts, she fades back into the background.

                    Never have I ever . . . no way . . . did you really? Mara finds herself almost falling asleep as she leans against the wall, and as her eyelids seem to shut on their own, she decides that it's time to leave. Actually, that was about an hour ago, but there are appearances to keep up, and she thought they'd grow bored of this in ten minutes. But then Finnick Odair had to come along and keep the party going. Myrsine looks just as tired as her, but keeps herself animated and straightens her back whenever he looks her way.

                    She gets up to leave. Lucretia, though, is having none of it. Her fingers latch around her wrist as she passes the pair. "Stay a while longer," she simpers. "We're having such fun."

                    "She doesn't have to," Finnick says. "Mentoring is a tiring job."

                    Maybe she's a little thankful for that. Lian could be here if he wasn't, she reminds herself. But now she's starting to wonder if survival would condemn her brother to this life she's quickly beginning to hate.

                    The Capitolites had forgotten why she's here, and it takes a moment to remember. Myrsine nods in some shallow imitation of empathy, and so does one of the men whose face is hidden behind a mask, but there's no leaving with the glare Lucretia's giving her. You don't have a choice, her eyes ─── covered by a contact to make them unnaturally vivid ─── say. You're at my mercy.

                   And she is. Whatever Lucretia says about her, no matter how untrue, could ruin her. But perhaps that's what she needs to ensure Snow's little game with her desirability fails. "I'll stay another round."

                    The next question: has she lied to her doctor?

                    Most of the answers are about sex in some way, as most of them have led to so far. Arachne reveals that there was, in fact, a chance that she was pregnant when she got her vaccine. The man in a mask didn't tell him about some kind of disease he suspected he had. Finnick says he lied about the number of partners he's had. She doesn't know how they all casually reveal such personal things she wouldn't give up under torture, and she wishes she weren't here to listen to it. ( Part of her wishes she were dead. )

                    Though Mara does drink, it's not true. Her mother was the closest thing she ever had to a doctor, and she never lied to her mother.

                    And when they quiz her, invariably as she shows some signs of being interesting, the lie comes effortlessly. "To avoid a diagnosis."

                    Lucretia giggles, eager to search for something to humiliate her with. "Of what?"

                    "Schizophrenia." She admits, mimicking their careless tone. The mood in the air dampens as they don't take it as jokingly as the other answers. "I'm totally fine, though."

                    "You hear voices?" Myrsine queries cautiously, exchanging a look with the others. Their judgement is misplaced, but welcome. Planned, even.

                    "Only sometimes." She says shortly, sticking out her tongue to get the last drops from the shot glass. It's the performance of her life ─── she always thought that would be in the arena, but here she is, another act for the same people. "Well, I'll be on my way now."

                    She wants to wish them a Happy Hunger Games! but there is always a limit to what she can force herself to do. Her mouth won't form the words. Nobody stops her as she goes down the stairs, pushing through the masses of people, elbowing her way out of the door. She walks down the street before turning into an alleyway, her head hammering, as she slides down against the wall. She's drained.

                    But there is always somebody else waiting for her. Finnick, having followed her, takes her by the arm and pulls her onto her feet with ease. The casual strength is mildly attractive ─── everything about him is, most annoyingly ─── but she's quick to ignore that. She's seen many versions of Finnick over the years. Hollow, on his victory tour. Sauve and seductive up in the Capitol. Afraid when his tribute Annie didn't look like she was going to make it out alive from her games last year. 

                    But she has never seen him angry like this, and wonders where it's coming from. He seemed perfectly pleased with the others only a few minutes ago. "What the hell was that about, Mara? What are you doing?"

                    "I'm going to sleep for the next twelve hours." She hisses, too tired to do anything other than take him literally. She wrenches her arm out of his grasp and glares up at him. Her own anger is misplaced, she knows, but something about him always gets under her skin. "In a warm bed with a stable roof. I'll sleep through the hangover and preferably through the games, too."

                    "No." He folds his arms over his chest, tilting his head to the side. She tries to manoeuvre around him, but he's quicker and stronger and not letting her leave. "Your silly act. Your voices act. Letting them call you Maria."

                    She can't fathom why he cares so much. "It's not an act, or any of your business for that matter. Let me go."

                    "Then stop lying. No victor would ever say that ─── it reflects badly on all of us, and on your tributes."

                    She scoffs, seriously considering slipping the blade out of her shoes and holding against his throat. But he'd probably react too quickly for her drunk, exhausted haze and she'd be the one at knifepoint. "Well, it's true. Besides, I already got a generous sponsor."

                    Now it's his turn for a short, bitter laugh. "I bet," he says, leering towards her, a wicked smirk on his face. "I'd bet all my money, my entire fortune, that it was Lucille Snow you spoke to."

                    Her throat goes dry and she stills. Lucy Snow?

                    "Yeah," he says. "She sponsors every tribute every year. You're nothing special, Cayden. You don't know how this works."

                    "And what have you done?" She is still reeling over that information of Lucy's heritage. That was the devil's spawn she found so pleasant, fooled by her pretty face and semblance of actual decency.

                    His answer surprises her. "It's complicated."

                    "So, nothing."

                    "I have done something!"

                    Mara isn't thinking of him, isn't even glaring at him. Snow? Snow? How could that be possible? "Lucretia Pyre doesn't count, you know."

                    He is stunned into silence, and doesn't make a move to stop her walking by. She's almost out of earshot when he calls to her, voice oddly ragged: "You know nothing, Cayden. Nothing at all."

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4,178 words! )
was he silent or was he silenced?? mara gags
finnick with that line after what i hope wasn't
a cringe party / exchange with capitolites!! it
made me violently uncomfortable as i wrote
it,, but there are things to be set up. bitter &
blind is one of my clever little constructions
that sum up the interactions in both scenes
( and later on )

explanation: in scene one we meet lucy snow,
who is an oc for a ( potential ) third book. and
while she is infinitely kinder than a lot of ppl
in the capitol, she's still blind about what is
going on ─── and mara is bitter and hostile.
but then later on, finnick is bitter about the
way that she's behaving, and however cold
that line about lucretia pyre may have been,
it was awful when adding the context of his
body being sold ( which she doesn't realise )

anyways, i'd love to hear your thoughts on 
the rewrite?? is it panning out the way you 
expected? thoughts on the new dynamics &
general theme?

see you next wednesday, eliya <33