Chapter 4: Wine and Roses
 (Part I)

A formal dinner invitation. One to a private banquet. Another to some show or other debuting at the Capitol Performing Arts Hall. Something to do with dance from the looks of the extravagant announcement. It's addressed personally to the President for a special occasion, but he's hardly given it half a glance. Including the usual missives for appeals and proposals from all the patricians he's become beleaguered by, Coriolanus has gone through about seven letters of the same inane tidings. Congratulations, good wishes, and happy everythings, all given with open hands for something in return for their adulation. Because yes, it takes some callow sycophant to achieve all that he has in the near twenty-two years he has had on this earth. He doesn't know whether he should be insulted or perhaps somewhat humored by their pandering.

Makes it easier to read them, at least. What's difficult is when he doesn't know what others want. His current struggle with this very conundrum crosses his mind as he reaches absentmindedly for the next letter on the stack. Only once it's in his hands does the brightly printed envelope turn his gaze. He instantly knows its sender from the faint scent of rose and lavender on its parchment. The only other in this world who can burden his thoughts almost as much as Lucy Gray does.

Coriolanus pauses, staring at the cursive hand his eyes have known his entire life. Turns the envelope around between his fingers. He can tell by its thickness that the letter inside isn't a brief one. For a moment, his fingers tease along the ornately engraved relief of the baroque-handled letter opener in his hand, pondering over what to do with it. Until what curiosity that remains in him is snuffed out by will alone as he regains his stubborn resolve. With hardened indifference, he tosses the letter opener with little care for the polished wood surface it clatters over, opens the lowest compartment of his desk and drops Tigris' letter into its dusty recesses.

It shouldn't have come as any surprise. She still sends him one this same time every year.

The one dependable thing left you can even manage anymore…

And it isn't even anything of real significance. Even so, its arrival always manages to leave him more vexed than he cares to be, seemingly even more potent at doing so than the entire stack of correspondences still left in front of him to catch up on for the night. He sinks backward into the cool leather of his chair.

That was twice already that day for her to have come up. He isn't one for omens, but he can't help but wonder what the odds really are here. Coriolanus rests his head back as he slowly closes his eyes. His mind wanders back to the exchange all on its own.

"Wasn't she an aspiring designer?"

Of course Lucy Gray would be the one to mention her.

"Why can't Tigris help me with this?"

Naturally, his cousin would come up when they spoke earlier that day. He'd come to see her briefly while waiting for the stylist chosen to serve her garment needs, just as he'd promised. Here, he was prepared to spare no expense, and she asks to give the task to the least qualified person he could think of, who didn't even have a fraction of the experience or prestige of the first ten others he could haphazardly name. Maybe fifteen.

"The one hired is already on her way." A nonchalant response that did little in ways of deflecting from the matter.

"Maybe we wouldn't have troubled anyone if you'd just asked me first," she hummed, thumbing through some of the sample books and catalogs that had already been sent ahead of the stylist's scheduled consultation.

Unassuming as it was, her flippant remark didn't fail to draw some exasperation out of him. It'd gone unnoticed, of course, when he turned his gaze across the table at her, eyes still blithely browsing the pages.

"Do you want to be the one to tell her 'I change my mind, but thanks for the catalogs'?" Surely, this would be no trouble in the least to her, the one whom this entire arrangement was catered for.

This quieted Lucy Gray, at least. He could count on her not to cause a fuss for someone who hadn't done anything to deserve it. (Not when he was to be everyone's universal stand-in for just that; no fuss for the staff, the attendants, or even the damned avoxes. Just him.)

He watched her silent perusing from one folio to the next. It wasn't like he himself had much of an eye for these things, but some of the color ensembles and embellishments looked to be rather much. Trying to picture her in any of the garish riots of textiles and frills, all that he could conceive of merely reduced her to little more than an overwrought ornament. Lucy Gray was not something so vulgar. Never.

Judging by the pace of how she'd progressed through the images, she may well, too, have shared in his sentiments. With hardly a mind, she opened the next book to some arbitrary page near the center of the spine. Suddenly, all the restless impatience in her seemed to completely evaporate from her hands, stilling as her eyes settled on the delicate pair of shoes pictured on the spread before her. He didn't recall them being anything too special other than the lace bows that adorned them. But what did linger in his mind had been the focus of her quiet appreciation deep in her gaze as her fingers traced the sculpted curve of their elegant heels.

Of course.

How could he forget?

Between her and Barb Azure, the two girls owned but few of their mothers' old heels. Outdated styles for sure, from decades well before the war. He wouldn't even second guess at least one of them having been inherited from more than just a single generation past. Lucy Gray never had many occasions to don them other than the days she'd sung in front of a crowd. And how proudly she'd worn them. Fixed her entire modest outfits just so with them in mind. So old, and yet so beloved and well-cared for. He remembers the entire Covey home being just that. Warmth and love amongst the squalor.

It never mattered that they were always a size too large for how petite her feet were. Just like the rest of her. Just like how her mama's rainbow frilled dress, too, looked to be just a hair too loose and several inches too long in the hem for her. He just couldn't tell at the time if it wasn't simply because she was so ill-fed like all district folk. Or perhaps that was it. What she thought she lacked in height and frame might just one day grow into what belonged to all her mothers before her. Fill their shoes. Whatever void they left behind.

He remembers, too, what it felt like being in his father's old things.

No. This wouldn't be the case anymore. Lucy Gray loved pretty things. She'll have all the pretty things her heart desired. All the things she deserved, all to call her own.

After all her fondness passed and spent, her expression paled. Coriolanus felt dismayed to see her quietly rise from her chair, seemingly empty of any interest left for this. He couldn't understand. She crossed the room almost as though to wander elsewhere. She was searching for something, anything at all to avoid him again. How she'd pulled her shawl tighter over herself as she turned away, even while the veil of the warm spring sun blanketed the room. He'd grown accustomed to what this habit of hers meant now.

He remembers how she looked in that moment, stopped still at the center of the room, arms encircled around herself. The portrait of a sad-eyed woman whose gaze could only trace those same warm rays to some other faraway place she yearned to be. He turned his own eyes in that same direction, as if it might reveal to him what it was he could do to console her melancholy. But he knows that all he can offer will only ever be just a surrogate of what she seeks, at best. All he can give are mountains when what she asks for is the sea.

But he knew to try anyway. Where her gaze searched for what lied beyond the high horizon, his own looked just below it—to the greenery and dappling of the season's colors across the expanse of the estate. Yes, he has to try.

"...Would you like to see the gardens?"

His soft question drew her back across the distance to him. Eyes still and a careful breath as her arms relaxed a bit from themselves. Like she needed to be certain of what it was he was really offering here. She turned again back to those windows, peering past the glass and to the painted field that extended to the ends of the wrought iron gates in the distance.

It pleased him to see this much, at least. Some kind of response. He watched her linger toward the middle of the tall windows, where the little rose she'd kept sat on the sill, now well wilted with several of its petals pitifully scattered about its glass. He watched as she pressed her hand against the pane just above it. Quiet in contemplation of his words. He didn't know what it was she needed to consider when it was clear how she yearned to be in that world on the other side of that window.

"No chaperones," he added then. "But the security detail needs to know where you'll be at all times." A compromise. "Other than that, you can explore wherever you like on the estate."

Lucy Gray turned from the window, searching his gaze with words lingering on her breath. Her lips parted for them, until the door sounded then, interrupting what she might have had to say with a melodic knocking from the other side.

Of course...the stylist.

"Come in," Lucy Gray called, the thought conveniently deferred for another time.

The ease of how quickly she was able to adorn that mask back again. In that instant, Coriolanus swore he could see the relief for it in the bare smile she'd assumed. The kind that never quite reaches her eyes.

He opens his own again to the muted lights overhead, reminding him that he is still at his desk in his executive office, an hour past midnight. He prefers them dimmer than during the day when he needs to work this late. Easier on the fatigue. With a breath, he rises from his chair to the small liquor cabinet behind him. He nearly groans, forgetting that the last ounce of his favorite red is all that's waiting for him at the bottom of the glass he poured nearly two hours ago. Another quick gulp depletes what's left.

And now that his thoughts have circled him, inevitably as ever, back to Lucy Gray, he is pretty certain he's finished with work for the night. So, sure—he reaches for another refill, only to find that the bottle is vexingly light in his hand. A quick inspection of its bottom end shows he's down to the last few swigs there as well. He laughs to himself. What a bother, he thinks, as he uncorks the thing, forgoing the glass altogether. With a jaded saunter in his step, he parades the bottle along with him like the ever reliable companion it has been.

Coriolanus muses again over what it was that the stylist mentioned coming out of the consultation. Just his harmless curiosity prodding at a matter that didn't really concern him—

"...Colorful choices. The lady certainly liked her palettes. The kinds you don't see in the city. Personality read like a painting, I'd say. I wished all my clients were as much fun. I'll make a whole mural out of her, yet."

Just about as much as he'd expect from what his memory holds of her. He finds himself somewhat excited to see her in her natural colors again. He knows how much she loved her mother's dress. Recreating it down to the stitches would be of little effort for the Capitol's finest seamsters, if that's what she wanted.

"...Funny that you ask. You seem rather involved, Mr. President. She likes her blouses. Simple and clean. Maybe with a touch and a frill here and there. Skirts over trousers almost certainly, but she likes them long, I noticed. And sleeves were a must. Something about wanting to cover her shoulders and legs. Can't imagine why. She's got such a pretty frame just to hide it all away. A strange district thing, I wonder?"

He knows it isn't. He knows she loved to be noticed. She never shied away from a bit of skin for it either. But never tastelessly. Even in the cleanest rags that made her best ensembles, she held her poise with utmost grace. He, too, wondered.

"...A sad shame, really. For a girl who loves her shoes. I saw how she stared at this season's collection of heels. I offered the latest ones yet to circulate anywhere in the Capitol, and she curiously said 'no.' Couldn't do them, for whatever reason. Didn't say why. Poor thing settled with flats. But she likes her bows, florals, and shiny things, so I'll make them work. And I'll make them dazzle."

This, too, struck him as peculiar. He almost second guesses if he had simply projected all those sentiments onto Lucy Gray. No, he was certain. She loved her things. She loved how they made her feel. For what reason would she feel the need to 'settle'? The thought curiously hangs over him. But then again, tastes change, after all.

How much has Lucy Gray changed, then?

He doesn't want his memories to fail him. He doesn't want the distance between them to pull her even farther from reach. He's managed to ford this far into the shallows. A generous swig from his bottle helps him forget its rising depths, already waist-deep all around him.

Coriolanus' glossy sights stare aimlessly down at his feet. Past their soles is the fine rug, woven in the elliptical shape that matches the wider perimeter of the Presidential Office. A shift of his foot reveals the claw full of arrows of the golden eagle that makes the Panem coat-of-arms. The full expanse of the rug is emblazoned with its seal, framed by laurels on a field of deep red. His thoughts muse over this thing—the only piece of his predecessor's that he'd chosen to keep. In fact, he'd replaced every one of Ravinstill's original furnishings once he took this office. New lights. Fresher décor. A more modernized desk (sleeker and more fashionable than the appallingly outdated heap of lumber the old man kept.) Even the touch of some nicer drapes. Something a little livelier. Everything except this, likely a relic that the former president himself inherited from the one before.

He's become rather fond of this office and all its little built-in antiquities over the short months. Classically timeworn, but hardly in any disrepair. The gilded walls probably haven't been redone in decades. The fixtures of the vaulted ceiling above look to be from the last century. But whatever old details have been preserved are reminders of those heights of the bygone eras. Everything this office was meant to reflect. The oblong shape of the room itself, he remembers being told, had been a concept of the original architect meant to model after the presidential seat of a nation that existed before Panem. Back when this was still 'North America.' No one remembers what it was called, how vast its borders, what it even stood for. But it was thought to be the most powerful of its time.

How both pitiful and fitting. He has no qualms about appropriating the best of an old world long burned away, even from the annals of history. Scavenge what's left of its marks and make it Panem's own. Make the world know that it's all there will ever be.

His eyes trace the insignia he's been staring at beneath his feet, all the way to its edge and on to the words inscribed almost imperceptibly along its border.

'PANEM ET CIRCENSUS IN AETERNUM'

Few among the populace actually even know the origins of their nation's namesake. The motto is of a long dead language, after all. Only buried deep within the oldest of books in the most obscure corners of this manor's archives had he found vestiges about that ancient civilization. Somewhere in those arcane texts read the true meaning behind these words. And only as he'd stepped into this seat had he truly realized its still resounding significance to their current day's age.

He smirks to himself at the comedy of it all. Almost divine in its irony. Words spoken by philosophers, not of any wisdom, but of warning. He swears the founder of Panem named it so as a joke. Holding a mirror to humankind as it laughs at itself in its own natal blindness. Whether it's ignorance or apathy that infects the people, he is still trying to figure out, but what a vantage point he is privileged to have, standing just outside of the ring to watch the masses from above. It is but a game board, and they, the infinite pieces at his fingertips with which to shape their world as he wills.

Speaking of game pieces—

He takes another swig, reminded once again of the mess he's had to clean up in the past few weeks. What trouble. But of course, he couldn't expect the ease of his inaugural months to last indefinitely.

Useless fucking Felix…

Really, what point was there to having a vice president who couldn't even handle some simple PR management? He'd taken a gamble on making an ally out of an old acquaintance. He expects returns on that.

"…You drop all the problems you're giving me because of your name."

Ravinstill's own flesh and blood, only lucky enough to shamble his way into politics at all due to the obscene amount of nepotism that kept him from bumbling anywhere too ahead of himself. Coriolanus recalls the day he sat at the table with him, offering a bottle of wine and a deal. (The memory of it clenches his own grip around the one he currently holds in his hand.)

"You give this—a gift from you—to the one you're going to replace."

And what a spineless little whelp he still was, unchanged since even their academy days. Coddled and shown deference for little other than staying clear of displeasing the man at the nation's helm in any slightest way. The elder Ravinstill never did seem to care too much about him, though. Too mediocre to be worth any attention. So long as he didn't give him trouble—certainly, the youth could have some minor seat next to the true players.

"Do that for me, and you get to be someone important. That'd be a first for you, wouldn't it, Felix?"

And just like that, young Snow was rid of his greatest contender in the late president's former second, and Felix Ravinstill swiftly instated as the new President Snow's own once their oaths were taken before the nation. With his alignment made came that of the other indecisive ones too cowardly to commit, falling in line right behind him.

And you couldn't even deal with a bunch of petulant students without tossing shit right into the fan.

The problem, in truth, had been a loose thread left hanging from the elder Ravinstill's final few months. Old man had the bright idea about cleaning out 'bad history' from the textbooks. With any smolders of resistance left from the Rebellion dying out, people found themselves with more idle time again to reflect, it would seem.

—What sparked it at all to begin with?

—Why were they desperate enough to risk so much?

—How do we prevent it from happening again?

All legitimate questions with too many answers from too many presumptive minds. None but only one of which was ever acceptable to the regime, and for good reason. Too many cooks in the kitchen meant disorder. Too many voices meant chaos. Even Coriolanus could understand that simple fact during his own time at the University amongst his studies.

Why? Too much freedom to think. Thinking in itself is fine. Until it strays. And there is where the problems begin. Too many strays, and the world goes to hell over it quick, simply because humans are the way they are.

Yes, Gaul. I remember your batshit philosophies.

Too well. He hates to admit that they are just too truthful sometimes. That there's a part of him that really still wishes humans were better than that. This is the scared boy who witnessed the butchering of a dead woman on the streets for the sustenance of ones still living. The young mentor terrified for the life of the girl he'd come to treasure so, hunted down in a ruined enclosure by other mere children just like her. The man who'd had his greatest sin absolved the moment he'd been told that she still survived after all these years.

And this was what those so-called enlightened youths threw back in their faces when they wailed about 'having their pasts erased.' Ones just young enough to have little to no memory of the Rebellion at all to truly know the horrors.

Capitol headlines heralded a peaceful student protest bringing attention to the 'purge of academia,' blown into a supposed riot that tore across their campus. A riot that ended with Peacekeepers firing on Capitol youth on a premature order. All because Felix fucking Ravinstill couldn't talk down a bunch of loud, unarmed kids with signs, and this is what he's had to deal with in the aftermath.

Loud, unarmed kids with a point to make.

Just like Sejanus.

One of him was a drop in the bucket, and quite ordeal enough to contend with. A whole wave of the same ilk? Maybe it was for the better that they fired. More loss now to spare even worse later. Maybe he shouldn't be too annoyed at the younger Ravinstill. That maybe his consummate fuck-up was a blessing in disguise.

It's hard even to pretend not to disdain the misfits. But unless they're a bunch of dirty tributes bound for a death ring, the Capitol rather cares when a crowd of kids gets shot at. Though at the end of the day, young President Snow has had his own immense popularity to fall back on and plenty of scapegoats to throw under the ever moving bus, so he doesn't waste too much effort on trying.

And really, he couldn't be too irate. The hapless imbecile was just filling the role he needed of him. What he wanted wasn't a second-in-command. Just a seat warmer with a convenient name for the optics. Though it would've been helpful if he could even be somewhat competent in the least.

Too much to ask for, he supposes.

By then, Coriolanus has downed the very last of the wine left from his bottle, but he's still too agitated not to want to indulge in just a little bit more. He pushes his way through the heavy double doors of his office, barely cognizant of his half-staggering into the anteroom towards the adjoining hall. He only manages a few steps before he stops to all the eyes staring down on him here. All frozen in their austerity within the portraits of his predecessors—few enough to count on one's hands—lined across the perimeter like the most dismal ornaments in existence adorning the walls.

It feels like they're pissed off at him. Or maybe it's the buzz from the wine finally starting to hit his head now. Though he did banish them all out of his office. In commemoration—that had been his excuse—giving them all their own immortalized space like some hallowed altar out here. Or wherever. It didn't matter. So long as it'd been somewhere out of his immediate sight. The young president didn't care to have the faces of those deemed too unimportant to him lining his own private walls. If he was to raise Panem to his own heights, he didn't need their ghosts hanging over his shoulders watching.

He sees them judging him right now—this arrogant little shit, tired and worn only months into his reign and stumbling drunk already before their eyes. What a joke.

Fuck you, too.

He smiles. Because it's not his face among the handful of them in their lifeless still-frames. He's the one standing now.

…On the shoulders of giants—don't forget.

This whisper in his head is not his own, and he needs it to shut up before it stirs the rest up. It's too damned late and he's not sober enough for this.

But sure, he ought to give respect where it's due. Their Panem survived and prevailed. His will advance and prosper. He raises his empty bottle to these great and very unalive men and women in a toast.

Especially to Madam Number Three—it's the wine's fault that her name escapes him right now—thank you for streamlining the succession by abolishing those archaic elections of centuries past.

To think that people once believed the voices of the rabble ever held as much weight as their betters. What sort of anarchy had plagued that age to instigate wars even worse than the Rebellion itself? So far beyond the conception of any modern imagination today. Those were the ashes which birthed Panem at all to begin with. That taught humans the importance of order from the wreckage. Something he suspects can far too easily be forgotten again. It is imperative that he reinforce those harsh lessons. That he brand the very memories they carry into them so they never forget.

And of course—to President Ravinstill. He owes his ascension in no small measure to the old man. He owes him for taking a chance on Crassus' boy. For giving him a deserved place in his inner sphere. Singling him out among the rest for his pure merit. Coriolanus will recognize another's recognition of his own value where it's due.

And truly, he does understand what the old man had aimed to accomplish into the twilight of his rule. A noble idea with poor execution. The populace needs a good distraction so they don't notice when things are slipping away. Even if it's not things they even need, it's in people's nature to cling to what they know and have. What use is 'bad history' anyway? Too blind to even know what's good for them.

But he knows better.

Panem must look forward. They are ready to move on from what Ravinstill sought to preserve and celebrate their young, new, idealistic leader and what he promises. So he will offer them their bread and circuses. Give them their Games. Remind them of what they do have so they don't question what they give up in return.

He follows his toast with another swig from the bottle, only to be woefully reminded that he'd already emptied what remained of it before he wandered past those double doors. He's also forgotten what it was that left his mood so sour before. But the dryness that hasn't quite left his throat still beckons him for one more glass.

Notes:

Apologies for how late this update came! There was actually a lot more to this before I realized it was becoming a bit of a megachapter, loll... I wasn't sure about breaking it up (again), but thought maybe with a shift in perspectives and tone, this might work well enough to be posted in two parts? The second was intended to start showing glimpses into Lucy Gray's side of things a bit more. I'm hoping the next 'part II' won't take too long to be ready for a post, since I have quite a bit of it drafted out already. And I hope my slow pace isn't causing too much loss of interest. .-.

I had a lot of fun thinking about Coriolanus' thoughts and visions for this! He's a driven and ambitious visionary who wants to leave his own mark, but I also don't want to forget that for all his brilliance, he's still quite young and arrogant here. That while he holds lots of certainties for himself, there's always some small internalized sense of self-doubt and insecurity that he never quite gets past. And in some ways, I see that his ways in managing the world at large might also reflect how his tendencies kind of show to be concerning his more personal life. There are a lot of seeds being tossed around in this chapter that I hope to develop into bigger things later on, haha.

Thank you, everyone, for all your patience, and for following along and reading this still! Thanks to Rachele, as always, for helping me out with feedback and sorting brain thoughts! (I hope the final revisions worked out here...hehe.)

7/26/23