interlude: gypsy boy
Save me, he's a liar! And I can't seem to untie the rope he's got wrapped around his finger...
Think I lost the last bit of my self control.
There is no moon in the sky tonight.
It's a good omen, where Atlanshi is concerned; a sign that the cycle has begun anew. Though the eve has been tumultuous, his energy is strong tonight, revitalized from his nighttime communion. As the moon waned, he could feel the tides of the earth shifting, could sense the power in the air, potent enough to stifle his breath should he let it.
(He will let it, eventually; he has no choice. Using the craft as recklessly as Atlanshi has this past week is a recipe for certain doom. No matter what he believes about the Mother's favor, 'tis clear (as it has always been clear) that channeling Her gifts bears a heavy price. His soul is beginning to fray; his body is beginning to crumble. Fatigue plagues him, exertion sapping the vitality from his very bones each time he tries to whet the whills or bend the weave to serve his instruction. Even now, left alone in the dark of his assigned room, Atlanshi's body feels weak, his skin too tight and his organs too loose. He assumes he might have a month at best. And that's without the Games. Without the ritual. Without…)
A single star hangs in the abyss beyond his window, shining down on the Capitol city like the eye of some cruel god. The streets are aglow beneath its glare, full-to-bursting with naivete and arrogance as the people continue to mill about, wandering aimlessly in search of revelation -
No, not revelation. Revelry.
Atlanshi shakes his head. He supposes such insight should not come as surprise, for there are few things a Capitolite enjoys as much as a party. Oh, yes, and there are so many of those to be had tonight, so many calls for celebration reverberating through the walls, off the windows, laughter-and-dancing-and-drinking-and-high.
People are almost giddy with their anticipation for tomorrow, and not just in Capitol Square. Maevyn's heartbeat is accelerated on the other side of the wall, sped all the more by her happiness at being with Cordura. It enthuses her, having a warm body to hug and hold onto; she has lost so many friends in her eighteen years, so many moments of bliss and joy. Atlanshi will not deny that her circumstances are unfortunate. He feels for the girl, the strange and sentimental child not of his coven, forever mourning a river-bound corpse in the confines of her head.
Were circumstances different, he supposes they might have been friends. Maevyn is not so wary of his particular gifts, nor does she seem perturbed by his mystic affiliations. Despite the blood that still lingers on her hands, there's an innocence to her that is uncommonly Good.
Atlanshi believes he is going to miss her. Camaraderie is not common for people like him; history has made it quite clear that to be a witch is to be alone, ostracized by one's community and reviled out of fear. Such revulsion is what led him to be Reaped…
But no matter. He shall not dwell in despair at being cut free from the District that raised him, just as he shall not despair what could have been, as what could have been never truly was. Four does not matter because he is not meant to return there, because Atlanshi-the-Witch is destined to die in the Games, magick poisoning his vessel from the inside-out.
It is worth it though, he thinks, rising at last from the sunken mattress of his bed. His bare feet seem scalding against the cold of the floor, ice and fire alike searing through his steps as he takes a step forward - one and then another, another, another.
The circle sits before his window, cast in a mess of light and shadow. Thin rays of moon-shine illuminate the white paste, smeared by dark fingers across dark boards in the shape of a caster's mark, not made to summon so much as channel. Two dolls sit fixed in place between the white lines, their terrycloth-and-straw exterior coated by dots of red, dark letters shorn into their faceless heads, damnation spelled out plain as day on their sightless skulls.
N, for Newmahr.
K, for Kanessa.
He'd wanted to wipe them out in one fell swoop - Newmahr and Snow, the Panemian elite. Both of them were responsible for the raid that had destroyed his siblings, responsible for the blood that clung to Atlanshi's hands - the death of a mother, his mother, who bore and raised him from cradle-to-grave, whose love and sacrifice had strengthened his spirit, allowed him to be brother, free and autonomous, one heart amongst many studied in the arcane.
Atlanshi is ashamed to admit that he was a poor excuse for a child. He'd taken so much of his mother for granted... her security, her succor, even the flesh from which he was made. He does not like to admit that it was his foolishness that led him to be so selfish, but a part of him had assumed that Mother would always be there, despite their plights and the world's desire to purge its undesirables. When he saw that bullet strike her chest... it had paralyzed him.
She was the first of them to go.
(There had been five others in the span of that night. Avisa, Merlyn, Thalassus, Anri and Sidra. Six of thirteen, dispelled in a blink, their lives snuffed out by a cruel government for nothing more than hearsay and heresy. His coven did not intend to foster rebellion, to pose a threat to Panem at large. They had done nothing more than exist as their own entity, sequestered in a bubble away from the government - away from their neighbors whom they feared would spurn them. Perhaps their arts would unsettle those who were mundane, but they'd never truly caused any harm to Four, not by merely existing!)
He doesn't know which of them gave the order. Snow or Newmahr, Newmahr or Snow… either way, they both should go… but Ansel helped procure the poison, just as Atlanshi asked, and his assistance came with a price; a trade, a bargain, a life for a life. Atlanshi agreed that he would kill the girl that his not-quite-ally most detested…
As always, he is a witch of his word. So…
He figures it's better to start at the top, especially while he's ahead of their notice. He can handle Snow in the Games, once he has a free doll with which to work; for now, 'tis best that he keep to his promise.
Kneeling at the edge of the ritual space, Atlanshi pulls the vial of ricin from in his pocket, uncapping the top and raising the open end to his nose. Scent is adequate, odorless as it should be. Just a hint of the foxglove pulp, but nothing of the castor.
He shifts back and holds it up to eye-level. Good color. From what I know it should suffice. Now for the needle…
"Shishi?" A voice cries from beyond the bedroom door. Atlanshi's eyes widen as he turns, baffled by the sudden approach of his animated partner, so unexpected he hadn't even thought to prepare for it. "I can't sleep, ya wanna talk? Pretty please, I promise I'll make it up to ya! Like, I got some tea here - or, I think it's tea, it might be a bit alcohol-y, but like, that's just flavor enhancing, right?"
Of all the bloody times. Atlanshi sighs, his brow creasing deep. He rubs at his face, then recaps the vial and sets it aside.
"Yes, Vyn, I suppose we can chat," he calls back.
No sooner do the words leave his lips than the door is flying open, his District partner's sunny blonde head bobbing along as she all but skips over to him, a cup held in each of her calloused hands.
"Hiya, Shishi!" Maevyn says, plopping right down on the ground beside him and passing over one of her drinks, grin wide, wild and almost feral. "I know its kinda late… sorry 'bout that, but I figured it's better t'pologize than ask permission, ya know? Just been feelin' real off tonight…"
"It pains me to hear that," Atlanshi replies with a frown, surprised to realize that he means the words. "Do you wish to talk about it? I may not be the most responsive, but I could lend a sympathetic ear…"
"Oh, nono, it's fine," Maevyn replies quickly, chuckling as she sets her own "tea" to the side and reaches a hand up to rub at her neck. Her eyes dart to the right as she turns her head, a flush spreading over her cheeks to signal her embarrassment. "I mean, 'snot fine, but it is, 'cause sometimes ya just get sad and there's nothin' ya can do to change it and - hey, what's this?"
Maevyn blinks in surprise as she registers the circle - and the two dolls sitting suspended within it, left untouched for the present time. Then, before Atlanshi has a moment to respond, her hand starts to move forward.
"Don't touch that!" Atlanshi snaps, grabbing hold of her wrist a mere second before her fingers can brush across 'K's' arm, his heart fluttering like a caged bird in his chest.
"Aww, why not? It's so cute!" Vyn enthuses, but to her credit, allows Atlanshi to pull her arm back, away from the doll and the mess she nearly made. "What's it for? Didja make it yourself?"
"Vyn…" Atlanshi whispers cautiously, resisting the urge to facepalm. Keep your composure. She means no harm by her questions or acts, this you know for certain. Curiosity can have serious consequences, but a true crisis has been averted, and Maevyn isn't so meddlesome that I should fear to indulge her. She can be trusted. She's…
An idea strikes him.
While he originally planned to save his third doll, there's no reason he can't repurpose one of the other two once its present link is gone from the Earth. 'Tis messier to work with unclean tools, but Atlanshi is practiced enough that he should have no issue, and he can only bring one token into the arena regardless. He'd planned to take the third and leave the remnants of tonight's experiment here, sundered into immendable pieces, but perhaps…
Can she be trusted?
Atlanshi purses his lips. Honest truth, even if Maevyn is too reckless to bear one of his gifts, he could stand to have a safeguard in the arena; a second doll inside the Games is an advantage he can't afford to pass up. Perhaps using his partner to smuggle such a tool in is underhanded, but considering the circumstances and how little he has left to lose…
Why not throw caution to the wind?
"Remain still - and don't touch anything," he says, letting go of Maevyn's arm and rising once more to his feet, approaching the dresser in which he keeps his clothes. Unfolding the jacket of his training uniform, Atlanshi procures a small package, containing the third of his trio of dolls still in its most pristine condition. He checks it over to make certain there's nothing… unusual about it - featureless, fine stitching, fine shape, no markings, no wear in the cloth, stuffing is fair - and is pleased enough at what he finds to return to Maevyn, settling back into his previous spot with a smile.
"This one has no link." He holds it out to her. "It should be safe. Just… try not to use it in a way that I wouldn't."
"Yessir!" Maevyn chirps, grabbing the doll and hugging it to her chest, once again beaming. Then, after a moment, she grabs one of its little arms between her fingers and moves it back and forth in a waving motion. Atlanshi smiles and turns his head. If nothing else, he supposes she'll treat it well… that's something.
A tear creeps into his eye. Maevyn…
She doesn't deserve tomorrow.
She doesn't deserve to die.
There's so much light in her - light and life, humor enough to warm winter and a spirit that practically dances with the joy of youth. Regardless of the darkness that lingers in her aura - and yes, there is darkness there, festering in her like an open wound - Maevyn Voydanoi is an innocent. The fact that her damnation came from something as simple as a broken heart is proof of her goodness. She may be a killer… but that's not all she is.
She's more.
They're all more.
"You look sad," Maevyn observes, and Atlanshi's smile drops, fading away as if it were never there to begin with.
"I suppose I am," he agrees. "So many people will die tomorrow. There's a possibility we could be amongst them. That saddens me…" he takes a deep breath. "I don't wish to see you dead, Maevyn. In fact, I would rather we had never met, given the circumstances which brought our paths together. You deserve to live a full life. Not a half-life that ends like this, in a place so barren and full of hate…"
He looks up. Maevyn is watching him with wide eyes, her lower lip trembling. She tightens her hold on the doll, parting her mouth.
"Is… is that why you didn't ally with me an' Cordy?" She ventures. "Because you didn't wanna see me die?"
"I don't want to put you at risk," Atlanshi half-agrees, reaching over and gently resting a hand on Maevyn's arm. "If you play your cards right, you might have a chance at making it out of the arena. But me? My chance passed the moment that my name was reaped from that pool. I am doomed to die and doomed to burn. While I have done my best to mediate the risks of the Path I've chosen to take, the afterlife is not kind to those who dabble in such affairs as myself. Witchcraft, sorcery… call it what you like, the fact remains that I have made deals with many a devil. For that reason, it is best I remain alone."
The doll falls forward into Maevyn's lap as she flings herself forward, arms wrapping tight around Atlanshi's back, her face pushing into his shoulder as she weeps. Atlanshi freezes, stunned by her action and the fervency of it, her warmth seeping into his clothes and making him feel rejuvenated. I stand by what I said before - had circumstances been different, Vyn would have made a fierce friend.
His own arms raise to return her embrace, the tears spilling freely down his cheeks.
"I'm gonna miss you," Maevyn chokes out, wet droplets staining the fabric of his shirt. Her fingers curl into the fabric over his back as she weeps, letting out her pain for the first time in days, all of her previous excitement fading in the face of her angst. "Really, really miss you, Shi. Tomorrow, an' whatever's after it, I don't wanna think about you not bein' there. I don't got many friends, so… so…"
She sniffles. Atlanshi rubs at her back, soothing as can be.
"Shh. Everything will be alright." He draws back, hands on her shoulders as he eases her body away, looking deep into her sea-blue eyes, a forced smile on his face. "Even when I'm gone, you won't forget me. You'll have a piece of me to carry with you in the Games - a token of our friendship that will survive, regardless of what happens."
Vyn blinks and then looks down - to the doll, flopped over in her lap, still and silent and utterly unassuming. "What if I lose it?" She asks, plaintive. Atlanshi shakes his head.
"You won't. You'll keep it close to you like you would a friend - and it will serve you in turn. But Maevyn, you have to promise me you'll stay cautious. Show it to no one. Use it only when things are most dire. Do you understand?"
She nods. Atlanshi smiles, and pats her shoulder warmly, rubbing his thumb along the collar of her sleep shirt.
"Good," he says. "If you wish to sleep here tonight, you may use my bed. Unfortunately, I have a long night ahead, so I may be a bit preoccupied… but the offer stands, should you need company."
"I'd like that," Maevyn whispers.
Atlanshi nods. "Me as well."
Friend. How strange that I should find one here, with all that's been said and done. And how strange that I should feel compelled enough by circumstance to share my power - to give her a link to the font of the Dark Mother, and encourage her still to use it, knowing full well what consequences she may bear.
(Maevyn Voydanoi... I suppose I will see you at the river.)
(Though I hope beyond hope that you will not share my fate.)
It is three o'clock.
While the rest of Panem dreams fitfully in their beds, Eli Newmahr remains awake, his attention captivated by a sheaf of papers and a glass of single-malt whiskey. His night thus far has been a sleepless one - just like every other night since the Twenty-Fourth came to a close, overwrought by storms both metaphorical and literal.
Leading in a time of dissent is no easy task.
Between the looming weight of a rebellious nation and the unhappiness of the Capitol, fallen into his lap after his predecessor's demise, it is safe to say the man has struggled. Eli has dealt with much over the last year, and there is no question the duties have taken a physical toll; he has lost weight. He cannot sleep. The atrophy of his muscles and the arrhythmia of his heart have given his wife a scare far more than once. Yet he has persisted; he has stayed the course despite the rising tides, just as he did before he was elected to the President's office. Perhaps he has not managed to right the ship entirely, but with a few more weeks… a few more years…
He closes his eyes.
At least he has Snow to help even the load. His Vice President is young, but well-regarded by the people at large; celebrity will do that to a person. Though Eli will not say he trusts Coriolanus, he can appreciate the breadth of his influence, the genius of his decision to implement a twist for this year's Games - one that places autonomy in the hands of the people, giving them an avenue by which to purge their undesirables. No doubt it has made Snow very popular - significantly more than the organized raids and seizures perpetrated by Newmahr's peacekeepers. He will admit he has been perhaps a bit hasty in trying to purge dissent from the Districts; even Hellebore said that progress should be tempered with patience.
Admittedly… patience is something that Eli lacks.
If he doesn't manage to at least bring a hand down on Ten and their blasted fringe movements before the year's end, he's not sure he'll be able to remain in office. Cirque du Noir, Rising Dawn, Crimson Lotus, Unity and the so-called Seekers of Truth… it seems as if every time he manages to cut off one head of the hydra, two more have returned in its place. The outer ring is a cesspool these days, and without a firm approach to combating the spread of their propaganda, they're only going to continue to expand.
Organized dissidence in District Two… a secret Underground meeting amidst the Capitol's very heartland….
The raids revealed a number of bomb caches and a stockpile of weapons large enough to make a hit on the Nut. Stars. It's even worse than I'd imagined.
Blinking to clear the fatigue from his eyes, Eli reaches once more for his half-empty glass of whiskey and brings it to his lips.
If there is a tremor in his hand, he does his best to ignore it.
The liquor burns as it washes down his throat. Nonetheless, he savors every drop. Capitol knows he needs the distraction.
The doctors said his heart was doing better. He's been off the blood thinners for a month. His skin's even started to get some color back.
His eye is twitching. He leans forward in his chair, perusing through the notes on his desk, and something pops in his back.
Just a joint, he tells himself. Just a joint, that's all it is.
His fingers work to undo the clip from his paper-stack, loosening it enough to pull free a sheet from the stack.
Ten. He sets it aside.
Six. Another for the pile of "problems that can't be fixed."
Two. That one's priority. Take to Cabinet, discuss with Secretary Rosencranz. Ask opinion from Snow about curfew limitations.
Four. This one…
The President's brow furrows. Four's case was an odd one; peacekeepers stormed the compound of a local cult in search of evidence linking the group to a handful of loyalist murders within the District's third quadrant. So many bodies piled up over the last six months that locals started referring to the area as the "Drowning District." Authorities stated that the last corpse washed up just before the raid two weeks prior; no bodies have been fished out of the river since the peacekeepers decimated the alleged rebels and their "Burnt Earth Coven." The case seems to be closed, but posting an investigator in the Mayor's employ for a couple months wouldn't be remiss; better to keep an eye on Four's stability until it can be confirmed.
What's next? Five? Eli chuckles. Speaking of cults…
He reaches to the right, searching for a pen among the mess of open files and scattered trinkets cluttering his workspace. After a second, his fingers wrap around one -
And stop.
Inside his eye, a blood vessel bursts. The twitching of his fingers grows more intense as the pen slips from his grasp, clattering upon the dirty floor. Newmahr's hand flies to his throat, fingers grappling desperately at his paper-thin skin. He gasps once, twice, broken breaths tearing from his throat as he wheezes and - suffocates - and - wheezing - breath - air -
His heart begins to thud. The sound of its beat is so loud it's deafening.
This time, when he leans forward, something in his chest gives.
There's a burst.
He's seventy-four years old. Nobody will bat an eye when they hear he's died of a stroke. And yet as President Eli Newmahr lies face-down atop his desk, desperately trying to pull air into a set of lungs that have already given out, he cannot help but feel that it was not his body that caused his death, but the guidance of a force far beyond his control.
(This is for my siblings, Atlanshi Bleumoon thinks as he jams the ricin-laced needle into the heart of his puppet, twisting and turning it like a dull-edge knife. This is for my mother.
This is for Panem.
And Snow? You're next. On my soul, I swear you're next.)
A/N: Gypsy Woman by Anarbor.
See you all again on New Year's Eve. :)