interlude: actions and motives

Wait, the fact you did it and don't admit it won't make you innocent;
Fate finds you wicked, turns you victim for everything you've done.

They're beginning to run out of options.

With each day, each week that passes, the rebels' reserves are growing thin. The more riots that the peacekeepers provoke, the more their ranks begin to dwindle, done in by blood as much as fear. The tactics that Snow's been trying to undertake haven't been merciful, or even fair; rather, his provocations have been destructive, especially on the heels of Newmahr's directives. The Capitol raids, the implemented curfews… all in all, they've given most of the Districts' people (the Underground's people) limited places in which to turn…

And so, they've gotten desperate. They've begun to splinter.

Oriana can't help but feel that she's responsible.

(It was never going to be easy, playing her role. Acting the part of a Capitol supporter, against the ache of her heart and her morals; true, she grew up here, but being a native Capitolite doesn't go in hand with supporting the offenses of their government – Valentin should be enough to prove that. And yet… when Oriana threw her support behind their hidden Underground, she didn't know what they were going to ask her to do. Sabotage, espionage… playing the game, in a different way, not so different than she had before. They needed a mole.

And they'd settled on her.)

She's been weighing a lot of notions lately, because of the guilt. Struggling to balance her conscience with the idea of her pragmatism – because spilling blood now might be a way to ensure the greater good, despite the fact that it's been killing her to do it. For the past few weeks, she's been caught between a rock and a hard place…

And, admittedly, she isn't the only one.

" – sir, I am discussing our options, I assure you – yes, I know there's people rioting, I know about what's happening over in District Five – "

The steps in the hall briefly come to a stop, their pause accompanied by a frantic hiss.

" – I am very fucking aware of out situation. With the quell – yes, that's what happens when the insurgents somebody put on blast are made to look like martyrs instead of criminals –"

Oberon's tone only seems to rise in pitch as he paces outside the door, each word from his mouth practically a screech.

" – told you it is under control! I'm handling it, all of it. Discreetly, too, mind you. You won't see any strain to the Security coffers – yes, I assume that's your priority. The divisions always get so fickle when money is involved…"

One of the ministers, Oriana deduces, her teeth beginning to worry her lip. That doesn't bode well…

A hand latches around the door handle, tugging it shut. After a moment, Oberon's voice fades into the background, leaving her to bask in a swell of silence – and the quiet murmurings from the tele's speakers

On the screen, she can see the tributes settling in for the evening; so many in poor condition, with little to drive them but the desire to survive… the days have been stretching this year, and there's no saying when, exactly, it will end…

"Isn't this just peachy," Tal asks, in that singsong-mockery that she only ever uses when she's trying not to snap at someone. "I came home today expecting a quiet night, and now I have more insanity just ripe for commentary. People burning in Five, a collapsed building in Two…"

She tugs at her hair, long nails close to ripping as they tear through bright blue strands. Oriana's throat runs dry, nerves settling like a lump inside her lungs. She can feel her chest getting tighter. All the frustration – Tal's unease –

"It was my idea, you know," the assistant gamemaker whispers, urgency springing from her like an undone coil. "Sending the poster for Velezen."

Her sister's hand falls away from her head, shoes stilling in the place they'd tapped against the floor. Oriana waits, silent, as she begins to turn, tension practically radiating from her fashionable form, entirely too potent to be ignored.

"What did you say?"

"I sent the poster," Oriana repeats, trying to numb her thoughts out. "Made the announcement for him, and for Ailith – Jade. The timing wasn't accidental, nor the message."

Her sister's visage is sharp, eyes narrowed and gnashed teeth glinting like metal under sunlight. She can see the wheels turning behind her eyes as she contemplates, trying to piece it together – warring, against her own suspicion.

"Why would you…"

"To spark an outrage," Oriana shrugs, tucking her legs up next to her body, her subconscious warning her to cut as small a figure on the sofa as she possibly can. "Not that any of this is ideal, but for what it's worth, we knew there would be rioting. I just told Oberon that I thought it should be on our terms."

Tal purses her lips.

"You planned for Five," she says, candid, and Oriana nods, not so much as bothering to try and claim otherwise. She doesn't see a reason to deny the truth.

"Snow knew they would riot, one way or another. He stationed an extra squadron there after the President began cracking down on rebel movements. The cult that rallied behind Velezen – they were always meant to erupt, just like Atlanshi's coven. And the Cirque du Noir..."

She continues to speak, her tongue running ahead of her mind. Something about saying it – confessing not just the truth of Snow's latest scheme, but her own role within it – feels almost cathartic. As if a weight's been lifted from her chest, taking her fear out along with it.

(Secrets are not something she's ever liked to trade in. Not like Tal.)

(Not like Snow.)

"The best way to deal with instability is to stoke the fear. Fight fire with fire – after this display, the rebels will be so reviled that Five will have no choice but to drive them out themselves. And where, then, does that leave us?"

Her stare flits, momentarily, to the screen upon the far wall. Upon them, still, lie the girls from Five and Eight, alone on the twisted dock before a burning lake. In the water, Oriana can see the moon – the false moon, that she and Oberon had created, obscured in part by plumes of mounting smoke, two flaming canoes crumbling into splinters before the camera's view.

It isn't beautiful. Nothing about the arena ever is. And yet… if there was ever an image to become evocative… ever a snapshot that was made to linger, and shed light on all the hollows of the Capitol's entertainment, make it clear that something needed to change, while there was still an opportunity…

(Another District divided.
Another rebellion quashed.)

With a furrowed brow, Oriana rips her notice from the screen, her teeth sinking down into the interior of her cheek.

She didn't do this for the Capitol – she did it to maintain her station. The people need her in the Gamemaking room – without her, they have no insights, no sway, no chance of keeping ahead of Snow's machinations…

What's the saying? That you have to crack a few eggs in order to make an omelet? Necessary violence, necessary chaos…

(The Underground needs the Capitol to balance the scale, if they're to get away with what they've planned. It's the only way dissent can survive the sweeps.)

"Wow."

Oriana allows her hands to fall still against her lap, the fabric of her skirt knotted between her fingers. Tal's laughter blossoms into something hideous as she clicks off the television, wearing her grin with sharpened teeth, and it's all she can do not to wince at her mirth.

"You know," her sister begins, tossing the remote back down on her end table, "I had my doubts when Snow brought you back to us. My bleeding-heart baby sister, caught up with our so-called Scourge, to the point where she was accused of collusion? And then there was all that shit with your title being revoked, and your marriage dissolving, and the house arrest papers falling through after Capitol Daily ran that cultist tabloid, and – well, you get the gist of it. I've never seen such an effective fall from grace!"

The laughter in her voice dissipates into bemusement, before Tal finally goes quiet. At her side, the cushions shift, velveteen fabric dipping as Tal's weight settles beside her, close enough for their thighs to brush.

"But maybe that just shows the power of a good scandal, hmm?"

A fist knocks against her arm, playful, and though Oriana's muscles tense at the proximity, she manages to keep her posture steady.

Her chin lifts slightly, tongue running along her lower lip as she contemplates what she should say – what exactly there is to say, with her mind so cluttered. Tal's particular brand of affection has always tended to be jarring; snarky at the best of times, downright vicious at the worst. All the teasing, all the caustic humor… they make it difficult to keep up a ruse.

But she has learned from the best. And so, with tremendous effort, Oriana quirks her lips, doing her best to make her crescent-smile into something believable. Not wolfish, not overwrought by egotism or pride, but… simple.

Eager. Insecure. Wanting.

(Wearing the expression almost makes her feel thirteen again; a simple, sunny, convivial child, absolutely desperate for her sister's approval. Always the one to apologize first; always the one to play to type. How many times had she followed along, perfectly oblivious, with nothing but that naive smile plastered on her lips? How many times had she sat in this exact position, not in front of Tal, but with her parents, the pretty little doll spouting blissful ignorance, content to keep in her box so long as she had their approval?)

Sometimes the best thing to say is absolutely nothing at all.

Tal sighs. "Oh, Ori…"

A flawless, black-clad arm drapes itself over her shoulders, one hand resting idle along the skin of her bicep. Startled, Oriana begins to turn, but she hardly has the opportunity to part her lips in question when Tal tugs her closer, unceremoniously coaxing her sideways until her head is pressed against a warm shoulder. Slim, bejeweled fingers press into her flesh as her sister squeezes her arm – some vague attempt at reassurance that Oriana's not sure how to handle.

She can't remember the last time her sister hugged her.

She can't remember the last time she…

Oriana swallows, her throat clogged by something rough; the inside of her mouth feels abraded, dry as if she's been swallowing sand, and when she forces herself to take a breath, her entire body seems to shudder. Tal's hand slides up her arm, past her shoulder to the back of her neck, until at last they settle in her lavender hair. Brushing it back, carding through soft strands with all the gentleness of a supposed parent… she must have gotten practice, taking care of Emilia.

Practice at being soft.

Practice at… care, and kindness, and sympathy…

Her eyes slide shut, lashes sticky with mascara and thinly-veiled tears. Tal's saying something, but she can't quite hear it – just bits and pieces, snippets of gentleness (it's all going to work out, sweetie) and crudeness (at least the sob story looked better on you than most) and cruelty dressed up as compliments, turning her stomach as much as her head.

"You should be proud of yourself."

(There's nothing she's done worth taking pride in.)

"Finally, you're learning how to play the game."

(It's not a game to her. It never has been.)

"Keep the smile on, and they'll never have a chance to call you on the rest –"

(The rest of what? Of her mistakes in following along with Snow, just two years ago? Of her estrangement after the mess with Valentin, when she'd been forced to forsake her values for the sake of self-preservation, keeping herself afloat to right the wrongs she'd unknowingly assisted? Of her hypocrisy, in playing along with their schemes, regardless of her true motivations – her true allegiance, so far from what Tal now believes it to be, so impossibly far – )

"It's alright, sis. You chose the right side."

(Yes, she did. She did, she did, she has to believe that… has to believe that all the harm she's perpetrated is worth the eventual outcome, because otherwise, it's all been meaningless. The guilt she's sat with for twenty-one months, compounded by her grief and mounting frustration… the actions that said guilt has led her to, so similar to Valentin's that it makes her want to weep…

Pain was never something she wanted to cause, but it's always gone hand-in-hand with politics. Maybe this was inevitable.)

"Tal? Any chance you could spare a moment?"

Oberon speaks from outside the door, the woodwork of the walls just thin enough for his voice to be audible. The handle on the door begins to turn, and in turn, Tal's arm withdraws from around her back, leaving Oriana's body to sag, exhausted, back against the well-worn sofa.

"Better go see what the ball and chain wants," the Master of Ceremonies says, rolling her eyes in false exasperation. "Try not to have too much fun while I'm gone?"

"No promises," Oriana responds, batting her psychomachy aside as she makes to bid her sister adieu.

Tal's footsteps echo as she strides toward the door, each of her movements accompanied by a sharp click from her black-and-blue heels. Eventually, the sound of her shoes fades from the periphery, and Oriana finds herself once more left to her devices – alone, conflicted… waiting for an axe to drop.

(Pragmatism is only pragmatism so long as it holds purpose. If her labors aren't calculated enough to bear fruit, then all the Districts will see her as is a villain. Another Capitolite taking pleasure in their suffering, discarding them and casting them off, with no consideration for the destruction in her wake… and she doesn't want that to be her legacy.)

(She doesn't want the people to lose.)

As the room lapses once more into silence, the assistant gamemaker rolls onto her back, looking down her body to her mismatched socks. Her toes wiggle slightly beneath the fabric, shades of yellow and lavender flexing without reason, constrained by the surrounding material. Like a pair of butterflies caught in a net…

(You should be proud of yourself, Tal's voice reverberates once more, whisper-quiet against the back of her neck. You chose the right side. You chose success.)

Oriana bites the inside of her cheek. There's one thing her sister doesn't seem to understand: she's known for years how to play the Capitol's game.

All Valentin did was teach her to make her moves count.

She only has one shot at this.

Ambrosia sits, quiet, as Varsen pours out two glasses of wine, setting one down in front of her seat just moments before she takes it. She gives them a nod, as per decorum, years of etiquette training tempering her mood – and, more importantly, her manners.

It's taken longer than she'd like to admit, for her to get through the other mentor's barriers; still, she'd managed it. A whisper of intrigue here, a murmur of manipulation there, and they'd finally begun to crack, once they considered the implications of her leverage. Perhaps, before, they assumed their connections would protect them; but they hadn't bothered to look at the full picture, when she'd first posed them a question. She doesn't need to unveil their identity to hold it over them – there's plenty of other ways she can use that information.

Not that she necessarily intends to. She isn't Regina.

(But conversation is just another form of game. And like always, Ambrosia is playing to win.)

She waits for Varsen to join her at the table, a familiar question hanging unbidden before her lips. After a moment, her fellow survivor inhales, as if they can hear it – and perhaps they do, before the words once more leave her tongue, a perfect facsimile of their last conversation, just three days prior: "Are you ready to talk?"

Her companion simply sighs.

"Fine," they say, adjusting their position in the low-backed chair. "Let's do things your way; spare each other the niceties, the facade, the hysterics. You want to know why I'm still alive – and why I'm in Twelve, of all possible places."

"I'd say that's astute, if you hadn't just parroted my words back at me," Ambrosia responds in kind. "But yes, that's the gist of it; you give me the blunt truth, and I'll continue to keep your identity private. At least for now."

"Has anyone ever told you that blackmail isn't very sexy?" Her fellow mentor strums their nails against the tabletop, looking somewhat aggrieved. "Anywho, I suppose you're probably right… there's no reason to keep beating a dead tribute – I mean, horse – so I'll be a good little bitch and give it to you straight. Snow believes that the Underground has formed a base of operations, somewhere in the forest outside Twelve."

"What?" Ambrosia almost has to laugh.

"Well, I don't know why you sound so shocked," they huff. "It really isn't any secret that they've been more organized, ever since Verduin's stunt at the end of the Twenty-Fourth. You know the freaks from District Ten last year?"

"Padma and Sephtis," she recalls, giving them a nod. "Yes, I remember. What they did – "

"Was only a fraction of what they were capable of," Varsen cuts her off, crossing their arms and leaning back in the velvet armchair. They sigh, running a hand through their hair as they turn their gaze back to the door, conflict warring on their face. "C'mon, Ice Queen, can't we just quit it with the dumb-dumb act? You're not an idiot. You know as well as I do that there's more going on than it might first appear; more dissidence, more chaos, more shit getting swept under the rug. And honestly, Panem's not strong enough to handle this much tumult – I mean, stars, we don't even have a stable government."

They reach for their wine glass to drain a bit more of the liquid into their mouth, a shadow downcast on their cheeks. Ambrosia's tongue runs along the back of her teeth, but she says nothing as they take their time, swishing the liquor about their mouth before finally deigning to swallow.

(She came here looking for answers. Patience is little trouble for her, if it wins her what she's wanted.)

Her former tribute sets their glass back down on the table, leaning back in their chair, arms now uncrossed. "Regardless of what the other victors might believe," they say, seeming just a touch exasperated, "Coriolanus knows what he's doing. He's our best chance at prosperity – and more than that, at security. All he wants is for us to survive, Ambrosia. That's it."

Their hand fixes on the table, palm kept away by the brace of their fingers. Ambrosia glances at it – the black-and-pink nails so perfectly manicured, an abundance of rings upon each of their fingers – and thinks of the Varsen she'd met, back in One just over a year ago. Loud, raucous, desperate to gain a platform… and cause a stir. She knew they were zealous in their love for the Capitol, but she never imagined that their loyalty would extend this far. Just what had Snow decided to promise them in return for their service?

"Alright, say I believe you – about the rebels. Do you not see space for another option?"

She takes another drink from her own glass, trying to be diplomatic. Varsen smiles at her, shrugging one of their exposed shoulders.

"Sure, I do," they concede. "But it's not my country to run."

"So Snow's way is the best way?"

"Oh, Sia," they tut at her, sympathetic. "Let me just put it this way – the Cirque du Noir was just part of a larger problem, one that's grown to permeate every district, every household. Panem is home to a band of zealots, all capable of wreaking more havoc than anyone here seems to realize. And contrary to popular belief, the little rats have yet to drink their poison."

Their hand slips back off of the table, instinctually moving to the stem of their wine glass, twirling circles along the surface with clear bemusement before they bring the cup to their lips.

"The Underground movements over in Six, the Freedom Fighters in District Two… if we let their ideologies continue to fester, we'll wind up overrun. You know it. I know it. So before you try and write me off, maybe take your pretty head and give it a think or two?"

Varsen grins at her over the top of the goblet, downing another drink. Ambrosia gives them a look, but keeps her own visage expressionless, in a classic and near-effortless poker face. She's already humoring them by hearing them out – there's no reason not to give an inch if it keeps their tongue clucking.

(Besides, the conversation's finally starting to get interesting.)

She waits, silent, as Varsen turns their head away, dropping their eyes to the patterned tablecloth. They set their glass down, touch lingering along the fragile base, dragging their fingertips along it in a slow circle. She can practically hear their mind at work; thoughts ticking past like seconds on a clock, trying to determine just how much they should unveil – how much she would care for them to say.

"My tribute, Castia," they finally settle on, pressing tight their stained lips. "Do you know why she was voted in this year?"

"No," Ambrosia admits, raising a manicured brow. "But I assume you're going to tell me."

Varsen lets out an amused huff, lifting one hand up to card fingers through his fuchsia curls. They don't take the time to respond to the comment, but their silence says enough: she's right.

They can't keep from indulging her.

"Her brother caused a collapse. Blew up an entire tunnel in one of the outer mines, and left more than two dozen bodies buried under the rubble. The Capitol called it an accident, but the people – they knew the truth."

Interesting.

Ambrosia hums. "Are you saying the explosion was intentional?"

"Rebels, Ambrosia," Varsen taps their head with one finger, a manic expression on their visage as they bend forward in their seat, mouth halfway to a twisted smirk. "When they caught Cassander, he was halfway down the river with a pill in his mouth. Such commitment to the cause, don't you agree? Why, I bet Twelve's little enforcers were just seething in their boots, stuck without any criminals to torture – "

"Get on with it," Ambrosia cuts them off.

"Ugh. You're no fun." Her former tribute rolls their eyes, clearly not appreciating her chide. "But I digress. The poor wretch committed suicide, and his message wasn't silent, oh no. He'd stuffed a cloth down his throat before the arsenic took him, and what did the Peacekeepers find etched on it but the very symbol of their fears?"

"Varsen."

"Fine, fine. You remember Madeleine Aldrich, don't you?"

…

Maddy.

The question is enough to prompt a cough, stifling the near-bemusement stuck in her airway. There's no world in which Ambrosia would be able to forget Maddy Aldrich – the girl who she'd denied as much as she'd seen, lying broken on the floor of a courthouse.

(She remembers watching the light fade from her eyes, as she'd stood, statuesque, with a foot upon her throat – not only choking her, stifling her, but literally crushing the air out from her lungs. Ten had practically been frothing at the mouth when they fought, but in her defeat, she'd been still. Quiet, contemplative. Almost resigned. And that…)

That's a memory that's stuck with her. Carved, like a scar, into her flesh. She'll carry it until the day she dies.

(Just like Kahlan, from District Nine. Like Calvin, from District Five. And like Angelo… gods, Angelo…)

"She had a tattoo," Ambrosia recalls, snapping back to the present. "A crimson sun over an array of black lines. I saw it when she cut my face, left me... this..." She gestures to her scar, ignoring the burning sensation behind her eyes. "As a memento. I didn't know what it was at first, but I suppose I found out later. When I was on the tour. Her partner..."

"Ah, yes. The Avox." Varsen affirms, entirely too devil-may-care. "Snowboy was wondering if she might still be alive – I bet he'll be so pleased to finally have a confirmation…"

Inevitably, they start to giggle. Ambrosia grits her teeth.

"But the Rising Dawn was never large enough to have significant influence," she persists, cutting short their gossip-drunk glee. "In fact, most of them were killed before the Twenty-Third – "

"Is that what Verity told you?" Her former mentee asks, taunting. "Because the sketch that we found on the wall of District Five's suite most definitely says otherwise..."

…

Oh.

Oh.

The pieces start to click.

Ambrosia's forehead pinches as she takes a deep breath, sliding one hand over her face.

"Okay," she says. "Let me get this straight. You think the groups in Ten are offshoots of something bigger, and that it all ties back to – what, District Five? Velezen Vilarys – "

"Was the ringleader of an insurgent cult that's been around for far longer than he chose to claim," Varsen replies with a smirk. "The kid might've liked to pretend he was the shit, but really, he was just the fourth in a crazy set. The Bloody Flame's had their share of figureheads – though to my knowledge, Vilarys was the only one to be titled. They called him by this ridiculous moniker – stars, I can't even recall what it was, now. 'Sun God?'"

"Solar King," Ambrosia corrects. Varsen waves their arm about, brushing the correction off.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Honestly, that sounds just as stupid."

There's a moment of pause. The Twelve mentor downs another swig of wine, leaving his glass well and empty in his hand. Sighing, they set it aside, and Ambrosia looks on with a raised brow as they once more lose their joy, their grin becoming a grimace. After a moment, their eyes slip closed, lips moving in a mumble that she can't make sense of. It almost seems… lost.

Ambrosia sighs, taking a sip from the rose in her own glass.

Varsen's always been the sort to indulge in a lot of chatter; sometimes, she thinks they just like to hear themself talk. But their penchant for being a loudmouth isn't enough to explain the gist of this – why they've chosen to divulge all their secrets, and seemingly on a whim. Perhaps it's a ploy, to try and rope her into saying something incriminating –not that she exactly has much, in the way of intel, but Capitol knows her former mentee has never exactly been trustworthy. And yet, if that were the case… would they not care to choose a story that's more believable?

"Why are you telling me this?" She ventures, curious. Varsen snorts.

"Fuck if I know," he says, bracing his arms against the table. They don't bother trying to look at her face. "Boredom, maybe? Anger, bitterness, frustration at what survival's clearly cost me? Don't get me wrong, it's great not being stuffed in a wooden box, but victory isn't exactly what One chalked it up to be. I'm sure that you can sympathize."

Ambrosia feels her jaw shift, the last remark cutting deeper than it probably was meant to.

"Part of that," she says, attempting to keep her tone even, "is because you didn't win, by your own admission. You got lucky – "

"Luck?" Her fellow One laughs, half-hysteric. "Please, Ambrosia, don't make me chuckle. If I was lucky, our darling little friends from the Ministry of Malcontent would've sent me a capsule of cyanide, instead of their little tricksy-trap pill."

They raise their head, mouth fixed in a grin.

"But," they continue, as much mania as they can conjure imbued in their jesting tone, "I guess misery's just what the Doctor ordered. And truth be told, I'd rather be kill-me-now-pretty than happy-with-a-rotted-face."

…

Ambrosia swallows. She hadn't expected an admission like that; such a stark turn from their usual persona, with all the affectations and flair for drama. It almost makes her wish –

"And you know what's worse? Twelve is never going to have a victor. Not a one. That's why Snow fucking put me there, because he thought he could just throw me away. Cover up the problem and throw me away, and isn't that just perfect? I'm going to be stuck there, for the rest of my life, covered in coal dust and listening to cave trolls barter."

Easing back up in their seat, the tribute-turned-Capitolite reaches for the open wine bottle, in need of yet another refill. Ambrosia watches as they lift it up, tilt the end to pour red into their glass, and her heart almost starts to pang.

It's true that she doesn't sympathize, not after all they've done. Yet there's a part of her that she recalls from her own victory – a part of the Ambrosia that she'd lost in the Games, who had wanted success just as desperately – craved acknowledgment, craved significance, anything to be back in her family's good graces…

(She'd wanted to feel like something more than a failure. And seeing Varsen, like this… it's as if she's staring at a mirror.)

"Varsen, I – "

Frustration seeps out of her like blood from a wound. Varsen waves a hand at her, as she opens her mouth, polished fingers all but flicking at the air.

"Don't," he warns, the word plainly dismissive. "I'm starting to tire of playing host. You should go."

… it's not a request.

With the conversation having reached its end, the Twenty-Third's victor rises, standing tall on weary feet. Her mouth turns, wry, and she offers Varsen a nod, stepping back from her chair to make her intentions known.

"Alright," Ambrosia said, conceding to their outburst. "I'll go."

Varsen, this time, says nothing.

She turns, then, her shadow casting over the table, the cool air from the fan whipping over her exposed back. With shoulders squared, she moves from the kitchen to the sitting area, passing couches and tables in abundance before her feet halt in front of a closed door, a part of her wishing not to end things.

This… reconnection. It isn't what she'd expected. Varsen's changed.

(And not for the better, like her – they're more mature, certainly, but something about how they carry themself is needling her, screaming that she shouldn't leave them alone, for the same reason she should've kept a better watch on Angelo.)

You could still go back, she considers. If you really wanted, you could stay, you could – be there for him, for your winning tribute. Maybe it wasn't you that brought them home, but for a time, they'd been yours to work with – yours to try and console.

(Like it or not, you were their mentor.)

…

…

…

"I just wanted to be something. Is that so wrong? The only thing I ever fucking wanted…"

Their words taper off, bottle slamming back down on the table, hard enough to echo.

"Maybe," Varsen says, halfway under their breath. "Maybe I deserve this. Maybe this is what I…"

Ambrosia's fingers slip from the door handle. She turns around.

Maybe they are undeserving, the victor thinks, her free hand balled into a fist. Maybe I am too. But I'm not going to squander a second chance, when it's been given.

I won't let Varsen wear themselves into the ground.

"First things first," she says, keeping her words stern. "I want you to put down the wine. Then, we're going to discuss our options."

Oh what tangled webs we weave, when we practice to deceive...
(Believe it or not, I know you well - I know all your actions and motives.)

A/N: Actions & Motives by 10 Years.
Massive thank you to Gloom for playing beta here; you're an actual king, my guy.
Day Ten, Part One is what will be released next, and believe me when I say… it's a fun one.
Just seven more chapters before we react the epilogues. Thank you, as always, for reading.