Chapter One-Hundred-and-Seven; The Price of Love
Seneca's eyes studied the bright, blue expanse of sky above him as his fingers trailed lightly over the angry, purple marks around his throat.
He grimaced, wincing slightly as he swallowed and the movement caused another twinge of pain, making him scowl darkly.
Seneca may have been an expert in causing pain in others both emotionally and physically, but he was essentially a stranger when it came to enduring it himself.
He had afterall grown up in the Capitol where he was not expected to lift a single finger to get what he wanted. He had never had to do back-breaking work to scrape out a living like those in the Districts, nor had anyone ever dared or been downright crazy enough to try and lay a hand on the President's son.
Hence the sensations the tender welts around his neck were causing were entirely foreign and completely aggravating.
The unpleasant feelings were also intensified by the loathsome thought that it was Haymitch Abernathy who had caused them.
Scowling darkly Seneca tried to conciliate himself with the image of Haymitch being beaten to a pulp on his orders, by his personal guard in retaliation. It soothed him but a little.
However his dark musings were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Seneca straightened from his previous stance of leaning heavily against the black Capitol car that flashed and gleamed in the sunshine.
They were in a rather secluded area on the outskirts of the Capitol; a relatively concealed stretch of land that was a merging of the urban Capitol sprawling into the surrounding landscape.
A few metres away, the main road that led back to the Capitol was completely silent; few came out this way. The slightly gnarled tree his car was parked under rustled softly in the wind.
The gravelly ground beneath their shoes crunched as the two figures approached him; the real reason Seneca was so far from the Capitol on this day, nearing.
His personal guard nodded curtly in acknowledgement as he reached Seneca. The man didn't need any prompting though as he moved immediately off to slip into the front seat with Seneca's driver.
The sound of the car door closing echoed loudly in the silence of this secluded place and the sole other figure before him flinched at it.
Rolling his shoulders luxuriously Seneca eyed her with cool disdain.
"I know what you've been up to," Seneca drawled out casually, but there was ice in his voice.
Ficen's violet eyes trembled. She looked sickly under the bright sunshine, her skin having an almost grey pallor to it.
Ficen visibly gulped, lost for what response she could give.
However Seneca proceeded anyway, evidently expecting no answer from her.
"Associating yourself with idiots like Fas and Dess? You really must have been desperate," Seneca continued, feeling a cruel smirk toy at his lips.
Ficen flushed a blotchy red that clashed horribly with her snow white hair. "Everything I did was to help you!" Ficen blurted out fervently.
Seneca scoffed, rolling his eyes aloofly. "Help me? What gave you the impression that I needed your help?"
Ficen pressed her lips together in a thin white line as fury and desperation battled in her eyes. "That girl…" Ficen began scathingly, her voice twisted in rage before Seneca interrupted her.
"Stephanie," Seneca corrected her calmly.
Ficen stared at him incredulous. "What?!" she exclaimed in surprise, forgetting herself for a moment in lieu of her shock.
Surely Seneca couldn't be serious? – Ficen's panicked thoughts hurried to reassure herself.
Seneca scowled at Ficen's uncharacteristic display of anything other than complete obedience to him, but he could see it hadn't been a conscious decision on the stylist's part as shock was still prevalent on her face.
"That girl's name is Stephanie or Miss Trindlesworth," Seneca enforced, his tone dangerous.
Ficen expelled a strangled breath in disbelief. She had hoped desperately that Seneca had merely been toying with Stephanie for his own amusement to torture Haymitch. But this…making Ficen call Stephanie by her name, even in private – affording Stephanie respect as though she were an equal rather than a dingy district dweller.
Ficen almost staggered as the horrible realisation latched onto her; Seneca loved Stephanie.
Ficen hadn't wanted to believe it when Fas had told her it. The sleaze reporter had stated that he would no longer be doing her bidding as Ficen held no power over Seneca. Ficen had tried to convince Fas otherwise when Fas had laughed in her face calling her a deluded fool; that Seneca loved Stephanie.
Ficen had screamed in laughter until tears ran from her eyes at the preposterous notion that someone like Seneca Crane could possibly love someone like Stephanie Trindlesworth. Fas had merely shook his head before leaving her home, reminding her that whether she believed him or not he would no longer be working for her.
But now…the horrible, hateful truth stood before her irrefutably and undeniably. Seneca didn't need to voice the disgusting admission, Ficen could see it all clearly now. The excuses she had been making all along for Seneca's behaviour concerning Stephanie fell flat.
Seneca loved Stephanie.
Ficen gritted her teeth together in a snarl. She wanted to tear Stephanie limb from limb. Someone like Stephanie didn't deserve someone like Seneca Crane. Stephanie would never be able to understand him, never be devoted to Seneca in the way Ficen was.
"She is from the Districts Seneca! A filthy district girl – a tribute!" Ficen cried in frustration, her eyes wide and slightly manic.
Seneca's expression darkened only further. "I've warned you once Ficen," he hissed. "I am not in the habit of repeating myself. Her name is Stephanie."
Ficen let out something like a strangled shriek as she struggled to reel in her exploding anger at that scheming, district tramp that had managed to blind Seneca to all that he stood for.
Stephanie!
"Seneca, she tried to destroy you with that lover's appeal at her interview. They would have found out it was you who sent the necklace and they would have scrapped your Games for prejudice!" Ficen exclaimed, hoping to make Seneca see Stephanie for what she truly was.
Seneca looked almost bored as he answered her, "No Ficen, you simpleton. I started the lover's appeal. I told Flickerman to do it."
Ficen's mouth hung open in unrestrained disbelief but she could produce no words.
"You?!" she finally managed to gasp out.
Seneca still looked thoroughly bored. "Are you deaf as well now Ficen?" he snapped.
Ficen turned away from him for a brief moment, feeling as though she may faint like that simple district girl always did.
The thought alone made Ficen stand tall, steeling herself against any such idiotic thing as collapsing though her legs felt weak beneath her.
"I don't understand Seneca," Ficen rasped out, her voice hoarse as her gaze flickered anxiously to Seneca.
Seneca furrowed his brow before scoffing. "I frankly don't care whether you do or not Ficen. I did not bring you here today to suddenly shed light on any concerns you might have," Seneca spat out contemptuously.
Ficen felt bitterness hiss through her veins, hatred rising in undulating spikes in her directed at one source; at the district fiend that had taken Seneca from her…Stephanie Trindlesworth.
"Why am I here for?" Ficen heard herself voice aloud as she stood quivering on the spot in barely controlled rage.
Her last, desperate chance at convincing Seneca against Stephanie had slipped through her fingers and now Ficen was left with a burning hatred brewing inside of her.
"A warning Ficen," Seneca stated in a voice that brooked no argument; the threat blatant.
Ficen's gaze snapped to him. How could Seneca threaten her? All she had ever done was to help Seneca in every possible way she could.
"You will continue on as Stephanie's stylist creating for her your best work," Seneca resumed menacingly.
Ficen stiffened, feeling rage spike in her. She only ever produced her best work. Ficen had no doubt in her mind that this was all Stephanie's doing; whispering in Seneca's ear false words about her.
"And Ficen," Seneca added ominously, "You will never do anything to distress Stephanie."
Ficen almost screeched. Distress Stephanie?! Ficen wanted to kill her!
"Ficen!" Seneca called sharply seeing the fury in every line of Ficen's person.
Ficen's furious, violet gaze focused on Seneca, any words she might have uttered strangled in her throat by her rage.
Seneca eyed her coldly. "Ficen don't be the deluded fool you usually are," he sneered. "I would gladly be rid of you…" Seneca trailed off callously, letting the threat trail off chillingly.
However Ficen's rage coloured her usual cowering stance in front of Seneca. Her desperation and rage made her brash.
"Then why don't you just kill me?" Ficen asked boldly, despair crashing down upon her with the thought that she was truly losing Seneca.
Seneca glowered fiercely at Ficen, keeping his icy control in check.
Seneca callously knew it would be much safer just to kill Ficen off. The stylist knew too much but in the same line of thought Seneca acknowledged begrudgingly that he couldn't.
Ever since Seneca had told Stephanie he would make sure she would win the Hunger Games, his thoughts had been solely occupied with various strategies and tactics to make good on his word; to make sure Stephanie would win the Hunger Games, every idea more dangerously illegal than the last.
And that was precisely the point; currently Seneca was involved in enough illegal scheming even by Capitol standards that he couldn't afford any unwanted attention getting rid of Ficen would cause. He couldn't go about attempting to rig his own Games right under the Capitol's noses while leaving a trail of bodies behind him. It was too risky.
Also as much as he didn't like the idea, Ficen was an ideal choice for Stephanie's stylist. She knew the intimate details now of the circumstances involving Stephanie and Seneca. That meant one less person to worry about having to hide the truth from. It mattered very little to Seneca whether Ficen would hate the situation or not.
Seneca was fully confident that he could control Ficen. As far as he was concerned Ficen posed no worrying threat. Afterall, the stylist didn't have to know that Seneca couldn't get rid of her because of the close scrutiny he was under.
"You are more use to me alive than dead Ficen dear. Never mistake the small mercy I am showing you in allowing you to live, as anything more. The moment you cease to be useful or start to cause problems is the same moment that you disappear. Do we understand one another?"
Ficen stood in the bright sunshine; her usual stance of aloofness and grandeur well and truly shattered. She looked clammy and sick, white locks of hair fell across her round, violet eyes.
She looked dumbly at Seneca and Seneca didn't wait for an answer; able to see the look of complete resignation on the stylist's face.
Seneca turned sharply, his hand reaching out, just barely brushing the car door when Ficen spoke again.
Seneca wanted to roll his eyes, to tell her in a condescending, arrogant tone to stop wasting his time; they both knew she would do what he asked of her.
However Ficen's words were like a white-hot knife had been plunged into him and twisted. Seneca gritted his teeth, not turning around.
"She doesn't love you! She loves that idiot mentor of hers – Abernathy!"
Seneca looked over his shoulder stiffly, seeing the hopeful desperation on Ficen's face.
"I've seen them – the looks they share…" Ficen continued on and Seneca was frozen to the spot in silent horror, listening to the hateful words that burned and festered in his mind as they passed Ficen's lips.
"She doesn't love you Seneca – not like I do! You deserve someone so much better than her! Her and Abernathy; they're idiots – they deserve one another – "
"Abernathy doesn't deserve anything!" Seneca rounded fiercely on Ficen, his blue eyes crackling with fury as he strode towards her, looking as those he would tear her to pieces.
Ficen paled even more as she cowered down low, sinking to her knees as she nodded vigorously. "Of course, of course," she muttered feebly, her entire lithe form trembling with fear.
Seneca consciously slowed down his breathing, feeling his pulse racing and blood pumping in his ears. "I deserve Stephanie and I will get what I deserve," Seneca intoned quietly and Ficen shuddered at the chilling danger promised in the hushed tones.
Seneca regained his composure after too long moments and forced himself to step backwards, to inhale deep, calming breaths. He snorted in poorly concealed disgust as the scent of tree sap, of dew-soaked grass and earthy resin assaulted him. He hated the scents that reminded him that there were things beyond the Capitol's control; his control.
Seneca returned his gaze to Ficen who still crouched on the ground, looking up at him fearfully.
"You will engage nor plan in any more idiotic schemes to try and help me. Do you understand?"
Ficen nodded jerkily, averting her gaze hurriedly.
"Stephanie told me that it was you who ordered Dess Landa to attack her while Fas Clearwater took photographs...?" Seneca trailed off expectantly.
Ficen closed her eyes, the rage simmering beneath her fear glaringly for a moment as she considered Stephanie going crying to Seneca.
"Well?" Seneca intoned impatiently.
"Fas was to publish the photographs in his paper. It was to make it seem as though Dess was her Capitol lover to…"
"Yes, yes I am aware of what you were trying to do; to throw suspicion away from me. You need not have bothered. Do you really think I would be so idiotic to allow myself to be identified?"
"Of course not – "
"And yet you continued with your plan behind my back anyway," Seneca intoned contemptuously and Ficen gulped.
"I was only trying to protect you…to help you in any way I could," Ficen murmured meekly, chancing a glance up at Seneca.
Seneca's expression was completely stony and unmoved but slowly a calculating look was dawning on his expression.
"Ficen, there is one small matter you may still help me with," Seneca began lightly and Ficen's head snapped up, immediately alert and eager as she cautiously straightened to stand once more.
Seneca gazed off distantly for a few moments clearly deep in thought before he returned his gaze to Ficen.
"Things will still stand as I have already laid them out for you," Seneca began sharply and uncompromisingly. "You will remain Stephanie's stylist and help her with your expertise."
Ficen shuddered at the thought, her brow deeply furrowed as an internal battle waged within her. On one hand she wished to do whatever she could to aid Seneca but to help Stephanie…?
It was a cruel thing Seneca asked her to do but as always Ficen laid no blame with Seneca himself. As far as the stylist was concerned the sole fault lay with Stephanie who had thrown herself at Seneca.
Ficen nodded stiffly in reluctant agreement. What was the alternative? To be sent away and dismissed where she would never be able to see Seneca again, to be killed?
A brief smirk passed across Seneca's lips. "However you will also report to me – everything you see and hear," Seneca added and Ficen looked to him in mild bafflement.
Seneca's gaze sharpened. "Abernathy and Stephanie – I want to know everything."
Ficen looked mildly surprised at the demand but she concealed it well when she saw Seneca's icy look.
Ficen nodded once more; a small light of hope was kindling somewhere in her heart again. If Seneca was trusting her with things once more then maybe…maybe he wasn't as lost to her as she had feared.
Seneca released a controlled breath. "Good," he replied curtly. "Now make yourself presentable and get to the racing tracks."
Ficen flashed him a brief watery smile, almost shaking with relief but Seneca ignored it and turned once more to stalk briskly over to the waiting car.
Sliding into the cool interior Seneca forced himself to relax against the expensive leather seats as the car pulled away.
Ficen's words had made him lose his control, had made him react with blind, green-eyed rage.
He was already resolved to rig the Games to ensure Stephanie won. He had promised her, he loved her and hence he couldn't let her die.
Seneca was no fool. He knew Stephanie didn't love him though it didn't stop him from loving her.
However hadn't he proved his sincerity by postponing the training for her? Hadn't he proved that he loved her?
He was willing to wait. Patience never had been his strongest virtue, but he would learn it if that was what it took for Stephanie to slowly come around to him.
However what Seneca was not willing to stand by and allow, what he absolutely would not sit back and calmly accept, was for the woman he loved to be snatched from him by the one man Seneca hated above everyone; Haymitch Abernathy.