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Fourth Cream Cake: [Action/Voice]
[It has been some time since he did this.
Tonight, Gregor is behind CH7 with two large aluminum bowls. He places them on the ground.
One, he fills with sweet-scented bark and sage leaves. The other, with twigs and dried paper.
His hair has grown too long anyway. Carefully, he snips two locks of raven-black hair from his head. One for each bowl.
He kneels in front of the second bowl, the one filled with ordinary fuel, and tosses a tuft of hair in. Then, he strikes a match and sets fire to the contents. As it burns, he quietly adds a slip of paper with his signature written on it in his best handwriting. His official Imperial signature.
He says nothing as the death offering for his father burns. He's done this many times, at the guidance of Lady Alys. There had been no funeral offering for Prince Serg but the one which had filled the sky of Sergyar.
He returns to the first bowl, tenderly adding the lock of hair, a slip of paper with an invisible kiss, and, of all things, a child's shoe. As the offering burns, tears glisten in his eyes. When he's sure no one is around, he curls to the ground and quietly weeps.
He's aware of the limited privacy, but he'll whisper a few words over each offering. Anyone clever enough to sneak up would have to come very close indeed to hear them.
It is supposed that the burning of these offerings helps to drive away ghosts.
When that's over, he simply sits with his back to the wall and speaks into his journal. It's soft and hesitating--he's certainly not the "inspiring speeches on a dime" sort of ruler back home, but writing in the dark is ill-advised. His voice is somewhat rough.]
On Barrayar, we burn offerings for the dead. People died on the draft, but generally, the usual rites don't apply if they're coming back. It's limbo. What do you do?
Um. Could...someone give me a haircut?
Tonight, Gregor is behind CH7 with two large aluminum bowls. He places them on the ground.
One, he fills with sweet-scented bark and sage leaves. The other, with twigs and dried paper.
His hair has grown too long anyway. Carefully, he snips two locks of raven-black hair from his head. One for each bowl.
He kneels in front of the second bowl, the one filled with ordinary fuel, and tosses a tuft of hair in. Then, he strikes a match and sets fire to the contents. As it burns, he quietly adds a slip of paper with his signature written on it in his best handwriting. His official Imperial signature.
He says nothing as the death offering for his father burns. He's done this many times, at the guidance of Lady Alys. There had been no funeral offering for Prince Serg but the one which had filled the sky of Sergyar.
He returns to the first bowl, tenderly adding the lock of hair, a slip of paper with an invisible kiss, and, of all things, a child's shoe. As the offering burns, tears glisten in his eyes. When he's sure no one is around, he curls to the ground and quietly weeps.
He's aware of the limited privacy, but he'll whisper a few words over each offering. Anyone clever enough to sneak up would have to come very close indeed to hear them.
It is supposed that the burning of these offerings helps to drive away ghosts.
When that's over, he simply sits with his back to the wall and speaks into his journal. It's soft and hesitating--he's certainly not the "inspiring speeches on a dime" sort of ruler back home, but writing in the dark is ill-advised. His voice is somewhat rough.]
On Barrayar, we burn offerings for the dead. People died on the draft, but generally, the usual rites don't apply if they're coming back. It's limbo. What do you do?
Um. Could...someone give me a haircut?
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Blood and apple and cinnamon and leaves and the faint trail of smoke.
The fire that's trying to catch.
She closes her eyes, her breath steady for now.
...She doesn't seem to even think about the flickering match, her hunched position, and the ponytail dangling over her shoulder, dangerously close to becoming its own kindling.]
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Some of the kindling is catching now, and the smells are more telling. Especially the blood. But maybe that's partly her hand. And her mind.]
We bury our dead. Where I'm from. [It doesn't matter. He doesn't care. She isn't even telling him.] I never got to go to his.
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We bury ours, too. Usually we burn these offerings at the graves. But there wasn't anything left of either of my parents to bury.
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She thinks of Glimmer, her face swelling. The brief glimpse she saw before she bolted, headed for water.
Or the tributes who stepped off the pedestal too soon.
Or the accidents...
She nods.]
I'm sorry.
[It is what it is-- words of consolation. Without any real meaning behind them. Not a complete lack of empathy, no, but the sound of someone used to violence and death. Of having to say those words often.
They aren't insincere. But they aren't passionate.]
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So am I. I hope your friend can see your gesture.
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But he was there for me.
I wasn't there for him. This... is for me. I know it is.
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Funerals always are. For the living, not the dead.
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[What could have been doesn't matter, but the fire's caught properly, the smoke stinging her eyes. There are tears falling, but she can excuse it as the burning.
She's not crying. Not for Cato. Not for herself. It's just smoke in her eyes.]
I screwed it up.
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Because it has to be real. She has to make herself remember that it's real. What happened to her-- and, ultimately, to Cato-- is her own fault. She'd strayed too far from his protection, gotten too blood-thirsty, thought too much about giving a show.
She'd seen how different it could have been if she'd just kept closer to him.]
He was pretty much my only friend. And I got him killed.
[Detached, like she's talking about one of the Games she watched, years ago. One that doesn't affect her life.]
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How did you do it?
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Usually it's just one. One of twenty-four walks out alive. This year... They were going to let two of us go home. As long as we'd come from the same District.
Cato and I were so close. But I got cocky. And I got us killed.
[Apples. Blood. Blades.]
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You might want to start at the beginning.
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It's not a way of life here.]
I come from Panem. We have the Capitol and twelve districts. There were thirteen, but Thirteen led a rebellion, which we now call the Dark Days, and was destroyed by the Capitol. The rest of the districts were spared when they surrendered.
In payment, though, and to remind ourselves of our debt to the Capitol, Panem has the Hunger Games every year. One girl and one boy from every district, aged twelve to eighteen, stand as tribute and compete. In a battle to the death with a lone victor.
The victor stands as the glory of Panem, living for the rest of their life without wanting for anything.
I was District Two's female tribute in the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.
[It's said rather neutrally, pride creeping in at the recitation of the propaganda about the purpose of the Hunger Games she has been taught all her life.]
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He says nothing. He waits for her to continue.]
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If a boy and a girl from the same district were the last two left, they would be crowned co-victors. There was me and Cato, and the two from District Twelve. The other two-- a boy and a girl-- were from different districts.
I attacked the girl from District Twelve, wasn't looking, and the boy from District Eleven got me from behind.
[It's easy to say. If she just makes herself keep talking. If she doesn't hesitate.]
Slammed me into a structure the Gamemakers had there. Beat my head in. And District Twelve got away.
[Now, her voice falters. Just for a fraction of a moment:] And Cato was on his own. [Because she can still hear the words. Words she thinks she remembers, but she could have been dreaming or hallucinating in those last minutes. Or hours. Or seconds. However long it had taken her to die.
Stay with me, Clove. C'mon. Stay with me.]
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They won. Which means Cato died.
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[[It's all she knows how to be.]
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