Combo Divergence AU Part 1: Misha
HAHA GUESS WHAT :) I'm posting an AU 
xanify and I wrote in uhhhh (checks) 2015 where everything in the Canon Divergence AU still happens except that Selene is the 72 Victor and Petra is the Peacekeeper. What happens when this time someone takes it personally that Claudius leaves? OH BOY!
Artemisia rests her head against the glass window of the train as the lights of Two flash past. It’s always been comforting, watching from the windows like this and seeing home draw near. The years she came home without a Victor she’d sat in the windowless car with the casket; any time she’d been here, seeing the sights, had been a better time. Appearances or timed scandals or sponsor hunts, or taking her girl in for a week in the city, then returning home to the Village and the mountains and her people.
She doesn’t have Two memorized from above like - like some people, and whenever she came back she’d try to guess where they were by the flashing landmarks. Most of the time she just made things up, and it was good fun inventing towns and histories and legends and that mountain that looked like a snooty nose.
Artemisia has gone and come back alone, of course, but not like this. Never like this. If Ronan had brought back some of the president’s poisoned biscuits she might have eaten one herself just to have an excuse to throw it up; her stomach’s heaving anyway, but Artemisia is hardly going to puke just because she’s upset. She hates throwing up and takes lengths to avoid it but maybe it would make her feel better to get rid of some of the awful bitterness inside her.
That’s a joke, see, because it’s never going to get better. Not without Lyme.
Eagle Mountain looms in the distance as the train loops around a long curve, and that, at least, Artemisia recognizes even late at night. Once the train goes through the tunnel she’ll lose signal until they’re almost at the Village, and with everything that’s gone one she bets no one has called ahead for a ride.
She closes her eyes and fishes out her phone from her pocket blind, punching Devon’s number in by speed dial. He picks up on the second ring, voice tense and sharp and not a bit bleary, and of course he wasn’t asleep. It’s horrible o’clock and Devon was never a night owl but his mentor disappeared from the screen and he won’t have had any word. “Misha, what happened, is everyone -“
“We’re just coming up to Eagle Mountain,” Artemisia says, cutting him off. Devon deserves to hear what happened to Brutus but she can’t, not now. “Maybe half an hour out. Bring the car and come pick us up at the station?”
Devon pauses. “Just my car? It can only fit four other people -”
She runs her hand down her face. “Yeah. Small group tonight.”
There’s a sound in the background, and the phone rattles as Devon takes it away from his face. “It’s Misha, she’s fine,” she hears him say, muffled and faraway. “I don’t know, they’re almost here.” Then he’s back, and of course he’s with Selene, of course he’s taking care of her. “Misha, it’s Selene, she wants to talk to you -“
Panic squeezes Artemisia’s chest. She can’t talk to her Victor, not now, not when she’s drowning and suffocating all at once. “Tell her I’m fine and I’m coming,” she says quickly. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Misha -“
“Lyme left me, okay?” Artemisia snaps, and it’s so easy to say, just a few syllables, a handful of sounds that mean the bottom fell out of her world. “She took Claudius and not me so I just - I can’t. I need time.”
She hangs up without waiting for an answer and shoves her phone back in her pocket, then pulls her knees back up to her chest and sits until the train hisses to a stop.
Artemisia would rather stay on the train forever, let it shuttle back and forth between Two and the Capitol while she sits here and gets old alone, except - no, no, that’s not true. Not quite. She’s lost everything except she hasn’t because Selene is in the Village, waiting for her, Selene awake at three in the morning and demanding answers from Devon, Selene who’s about to find out that her friend left her behind and didn’t even say goodbye.
She’s up and headed for the door before she remembers moving, pushing past the attendants and stumbling onto the platform. Devon is waiting - alone, the car isn’t big enough for him to bring Selene with him - and Artemisia wants to hug him, let him hold her and make it all right but she can’t. Her mentor is gone and his is dead and he’ll need all the strength he can keep tonight.
Devon takes one look at her face and turns away, anyway, and Artemisia doesn’t bother trying to find the right words to say. She climbs into the car, folds herself into the middle seat in the back and waits for the others. Soon enough Odin and Nero cram in on either side of her, Ronan taking the front passenger seat without complaint, and Devon drives them back.
It’s a silent ride, oppressively so. Artemisia’s shoulders feel cold and bare without Lyme’s arm around them; she keeps wanting to lean into her mentor’s side and feel Lyme’s cheek against her hair. Instead she sits upright, rigid with her hands pressed between her knees, until the car pulls up to the gate and the others pile out.
Selene stands just off the path, hands at her sides so she won’t twist her fingers or pull at her hair. She’s wearing one of the shirts Artemisia left behind and a determined expression that doesn’t quite stick around the edges, and Artemisia closes the distance between them and pulls her in for a fierce hug.
Selene lets out a startled sound and hugs back, and Artemisia holds on long after she would normally let go, holds on even as Devon and Odin argue quietly and Nero disappears up the path.
“Misha -“ Selene says finally. “Devon said - Lyme and Claudius, what happened -“
She’s scared but trying to be strong and that, more than anything, clinches it. Artemisia might not have a mentor anymore but she still is one, and Selene needs her. Artemisia steps back, holds her girl’s face in her hands and rests their foreheads together. “Ronan is going to have a meeting,” Artemisia says. “He knows more than I do. I need you to go, hear what he has to say, and then come find me. Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” Selene says, eyes searching Artemisia’s face. “You’re not coming?”
If she has to sit in the meeting hall and listen to Ronan explain what happened in a cool, professional manner - Lyme’s gone, Lyme left her, Lyme didn’t say goodbye or even leave a note or anything - Artemisia will end up putting a knife in the wall.
“It’s been a long night and I don’t think I can sit through the meeting right now,” Artemisia says, and that’s true enough, anyway. “But I’ll be at home after when you come see me. I’m not going to leave you.” She didn’t mean to say that last part; it just slipped out, but once it does it sticks in her skin. “You understand that, right?”
Selene frowns. “Of course I do!” she bursts out. “You’re my mentor, you’d never -“
“I am your mentor, and damn right I’d never,” Artemisia says, and everything is horrible except for this, right here, looking at her girl and seeing unwavering faith. (Until today Artemisia’s faith in Lyme had been just as strong; until today she’d never thought Lyme would abandon her, but all that means is that she will do better.)
“Good,” Selene says fiercely, and she has no idea what’s going on but just like giving her a sword and telling her to go for it, there’s something she knows to be true in front of her and she’ll cling to it. Artemisia is happy to be that thing. “Because I wouldn’t let you anyway.”
Artemisia smiles and kisses her forehead. “That’s because you’re my girl. Go to the meeting, I’ll see you after.”
Selene nods and lets Devon draw her away, and Artemisia takes the path to her house alone.
It’s stuffy after being closed up the past couple of weeks, and Artemisia makes the rounds and opens all the windows. She hasn’t eaten since breakfast the day before but her stomach tightens at the thought of food, so instead she heats up water for tea and sets it to steep. She’s still wearing her Capitol-made clothes, and while the long hours at the mentor console mean her stylist couldn’t put her in anything too ridiculous, it’s still far too poised and crafted and silk, for fuck’s sake, and suddenly Artemisia can’t take it anymore.
She strips down right there in the kitchen like a fresh-out Victor, kicks the clothes into a pile and stares down at it, shaking. Artemisia has a whole dresser full of t-shirts and jeans upstairs, worn and comfortable and smelling like home, but she can’t step over the ones on her floor. She’s stuck, trapped by the tangible reminder of where she’s been and what she’s seen over the last few days, and more than anything Artemisia wants them gone.
There are matches in the drawer, and the itch sets up in her fingers, driving her to root around and find the box. Artemisia pulls a match free, drags it against the rough panel on the side until it catches and lights with a satisfying hiss and flash of smoke and sulphur. The little flicker of flame dances at her fingertips, and it’s been years since the last time Artemisia set something on fire but you never really forget.
She could scoop up the clothes, stuff them in a trash can and drop a match, and then they’d really be gone, nothing more than blackened fabric and ashes. She could watch the beautiful orange glow and let it calm her the way nothing else used to, before the Centre and before the Arena. Before anyone taught her how to hold a sword and channel her anger and frustration that way; before Lyme dragged her up and promised her she would always have someone looking out for her.
The match burns down to Artemisia’s fingers; she yelps and waves it out without thinking, and the absurdity of everything hits her smack in the face. She’s thirty-five years old, standing in the middle of her kitchen in her underwear, holding a box of matches and contemplating lighting her clothes on fire.
“You leave me for what, three hours?” Artemisia says to the empty room. “Look what happens when you’re not here.”
It would be nice to fall apart, really, burn the whole damn place down to show Lyme that no, actually, it was not okay to leave, that her girl was not okay on her own, that a mentor’s job is never over and you can’t just pack up without a word and think it’s okay because your job is done. Lyme would never know, of course, that’s the stupid part, but it would make Artemisia feel better anyway. Her mentor leaves and she goes back to being batshit crazy, it’s poetic, almost. Freeing, too; Enobaria never owned up to anything and almost no one ever asked her to because they understood she came out wrong and it wasn’t fair to push her.
If Artemisia lost her mind they’d do the same thing to her. It would be her mentor’s fault for leaving, not hers, and Artemisia would become the new Village secret, too unstable to be allowed outside without supervision. Apropos, with Enobaria missing.
Except then Artemisia’s gaze falls on a bowl on her counter, a little bit lumpy with uneven glaze and a streaky paint job. It’s the one Selene made the time she dabbled with pottery as a Talent before settling on dance, and despite Selene’s protestations of embarrassment, Artemisia has kept it to hold fruit in since the day Selene gave it to her.
There was a time when Artemisia could have gone happily insane and let that take away all responsibility, all the hurt and betrayal and swallow it up under the fog of meds and crazy, but that time ended three years ago. It ended when Selene walked out of the Arena blood-spattered and wild-eyed and alive; from that moment Artemisia stopped living for herself, and she’s never looked back.
Artemisia trained herself to be a morning person and how to keep her house vaguely neat so she would be a good example to her girl; she can’t throw that all away by diving off the deep end now. She places the matches back in the junk drawer, picks up the clothes and carries them to the hamper to be washed and put away later, then strips off and steps into the shower to wash away the last of the hair gel and ‘natural’ makeup. Can’t look ragged three days in, the sponsors will be turned off, and Artemisia turns the hot water up until her skin turns pink and the last of the cosmetics swirl down the drain.
She doesn’t bother drying her hair, just blots it with a towel and pulls it back into a damp braid before pulling on a pair of pyjamas. It takes Artemisia a good five minutes to find a sleep shirt that isn’t a pilfered one of Lyme’s, but finally she pulls out one of the ones she took from Devon as a girlfriend trophy, and that’ll do.
Her tea, when Artemisia makes it back to the kitchen, has long gone cold, and it’s steeped so thick the aftertaste nearly peels the roof of her mouth off. She shrugs and drinks it down anyway, wincing at the sharp sourness. After that there’s not much to do but wait, and it’s not long before the door opens and Selene steps in.
“Hey, wildcat,” Artemisia says, holding out one arm. “C’mere.”
Selene walks slowly, dazedly, eyes not quite focused on where she’s going. “He left,” she says, and she makes it to the couch after stumbling into the coffee table and collapses against Artemisia’s side. “He just - we’re friends, or I thought we were, and he just left! He didn’t call me or anything! Why would he do that?”
Artemisia hisses out a breath and wraps both arms around Selene’s shoulders. “He left because his mentor asked him to,” she said. “You know Claudius. He’d chew his own arm off before he said no to Lyme.”
“So would you!” Selene bursts out, twisting in her arms to look up at her, eyes wide and desperate. “You love Lyme too, but you wouldn’t have done that! You wouldn’t have left me, if she’d asked you to go.”
Artemisia actually growls, hauls Selene in even closer until she has to be half crushing her, but Selene only tightens her grip on her mentor’s waist. “No, I wouldn’t have,” Artemisia says fiercely, kissing the top of Selene’s head. “Lyme is my mentor but you’re my wildcat, and you win out every time.” She strokes a hand over Selene’s back, slow and soothing. “I guess that’s why she didn’t ask.”
“I hate him for leaving,” Selene says, and no she doesn’t - she might, and soon, but not yet, tonight it’s just shock and grief and hurt - but Artemisia says nothing, only holds her close. “If he doesn’t care then I don’t care. He can go fuck himself. I don’t need him if he doesn’t need me.”
Claudius was Artemisia’s little brother but he’s Selene’s best friend, or the closest thing she’s had to one since winning. He was one of the first to try to befriend her and the first who succeeded, and they’ve spent the last two years hanging out and friend-sparring and climbing trees together. Claudius rolled his eyes and laughed whenever Selene ditched him for half an hour at the bar to go kiss pretty strangers, and she made endless fun of him for panicking and hiding behind her whenever anyone dared to hit on him.
They’re a good pair, or they were, and Artemisia should have stopped this, somehow. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she’s the mentor and she needs to be Selene’s rock but her voice cracks anyhow. “Lene, I’m sorry, I should have known and stopped him from going. I didn’t want this to happen.”
Selene pulls back, eyes bright and blazing, and she pins Artemisia in place with the intensity of her gaze. “No!” she says, fingers twisting in Artemisia’s shirt. “No, no, don’t, I’d rather you here than him. You’re my mentor and I love you and it’s not your fault, please don’t be sad!”
Artemisia laughs, and she draws Selene in for another hug. “I always listen to my wildcat,” she says, and the ground stops listing beneath her feet quite so much. “Can I stay with you tonight? I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you too,” Selene says into Artemisia’s shoulder. “I’d like that.”
Selene’s house doesn’t smell like dust and abandonment, and that alone takes an edge off of Artemisia’s nerves. It’s too warm for a proper nest but Artemisia tugs a light blanket over them anyway, shifting to lie down with Selene curled up against her side. They haven’t slept like this since - well, since ever, as even in the depths of her recovery Selene shied away from touch, but this isn’t just about Selene. Not if the way her girl fusses and arranges a cushion under Artemisia’s head and asks if she needs anything is any indication; Artemisia’s desperation must be written just as clearly across her own face.
Artemisia has spent all her time since the train buried in paperwork or talking to sponsors or curled up in the uncomfortable chairs in mentor central, anything to keep herself busy so she didn’t think too hard about the big picture. She hasn’t really been Misha since the morning of the Reaping, half a lifetime away; she and Lyme barely spoke, and when they did it was only ever about work and Lyme used her full name.
She might not see her mentor ever again, and Artemisia can’t even recall the last thing they said to each other. It’s a stupid thing to get upset about in the grand scheme of things, but it sticks her in the skin anyhow.
“Hey, wildcat?” Artemisia says, brushing a hand over Selene’s hair. Her girl makes a small noise and noses her shoulder. “Can you do me a favour, say my name for me?”
“Misha?” Selene says, voice lilting up in confusion and turning it into a question.
Artemisia lets out a long breath, trying to exhale the last of the Capitol and the Games and the betrayal from her system. She’s home and she has her girl; everything else will come from here. “Thanks,” she says - Selene doesn’t ask, just cuddles close - and Misha takes a new, deep breath.
Misha gives Selene one last kiss on the forehead, then closes her eyes and settles in for a restless sleep.
The Village is a sleepwalk the next morning, the others going through the motions of their routine without much interaction. They avoid Misha - maybe they think treason is catching, except if that were true then she wouldn’t be here now would she - and she avoids them. She can’t even go see Devon, not when her mentor is alive and his is dead; it would feel selfish and all-around terrible to complain about her mentor leaving when Brutus has no chance of coming back.
The sad thing is that Emory probably wouldn’t begrudge Misha some comfort even with Brutus dead, but Misha can’t bring herself to do that, not yet. She likes the older Victor a lot, always has, but there’s something about her that makes Misha feel selfish for being human. The fact that Emory would recoil from that and tell her it’s not true only makes it worse.
Selene’s anger at Claudius only burns hotter as the day wears on, and Misha can’t exactly tell her not to be. For her part Misha isn’t angry with him, not when he’s wanted Lyme as his mentor since he was waist-high. Maybe if Misha didn’t have a Victor of her own she might have chosen to follow Lyme, insane plan or no; but for Claudius there was never any other option. He has no Victor of his own, and no other family like Devon. For him there’s Lyme and only Lyme, and that’s all there ever will be.
But of course Selene won’t see it that way, nor should she. She’s younger, and while Claudius leaving Misha stings, it’s not the betrayal it is for her girl. The two of them are friends - maybe would have been more, one day, like Misha and Devon or maybe something of their own - and Selene is young. She’s been out three years, not eighteen, and the abandonment is less a slap than it is a punch in the gut. Misha allows the anger because it’s better than whatever would be there underneath if she stripped it away; she can manage Selene’s rage, but a full breakdown would be far messier.
They spar for most of the day and curl up together for the rest. At one point Misha tries flicking through the channels on the television but they’re all blank, save for the spinning Capitol logo and a warning for loyal citizens to stay in their homes and await information. At least there are no arrest warrants or pictures of wanted citizens; if Misha had turned on the screen to see Lyme’s face on a wanted ad she might have thrown a shoe right through it.
By the end of the day they’re both bruised and exhausted, but for now most of Selene’s fury has been worked through, leaving her tired and quiet but no longer seething. She picks at her food, mashing the pasta against the side of her bowl with her fork, and if she could Misha would pick her up and carry her upstairs to sleep except that Selene would balk at that. (Misha doesn’t blame her; she’d’ve lost her shit if Lyme tried to carry her anywhere except under the most drugged circumstances, but being a mentor tends to skew things a little.)
“Can I stay again?” Misha asks instead. “You’ve got the spare room, and I’d rather not be alone again. Call me superstitious, but after the last few months I’d like to know you’re close.”
“Of course,” Selene says immediately. “Whatever you need.”
What Misha needs is something only one person can give her, and unfortunately that person is never going to do it, but there’s no point in moping about it. “I’m going to go back home tonight and pick up some clothes for the next few days,” Misha says. “I mean, not if you don’t want me to stay, but I think I’m going to want you around for a little while.”
Selene nods. “What do you think is happening?” she asks. “Out in the districts, I mean. The broadcast just - shut off, and there hasn’t been anything since.”
“Riots, probably,” Misha says, shrugging. “People lose their minds in a crisis, especially out there. Hopefully here in Two people calm the fuck down and don’t try anything stupid.”
“We’re not traitors,” Selene says scornfully, and then the line of her shoulders tightens. “Most of us, anyway.” A moment later she grimaces, reaches out a hand to touch Misha’s arm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean - they’re ours, I know, and Lyme’s your mentor - but they turned their back on us. What else are we supposed to think?”
Selene isn’t Emory, and Misha isn’t Brutus; neither of them care very much for duty and honour and sacrifice, but sometimes a duck is just a duck. “I think it doesn’t matter what we call it,” Misha says honestly. “They did what they did and that’s that.” Selene’s expression has gone dark again, and Misha sighs and pushes away her plate. “Come on, wildcat, let’s go spar some more.”
The day after that, Misha stands in Selene’s kitchen, looking into the fridge and trying to drum up enough enthusiasm to eat something. Selene has been watching her with sharp-eyed concern even as she tries not to let Misha see, and if she catches her mentor ducking her food it will only upset her. Be a good example, Misha reminds herself; let Selene see it’s all right to be affected, but don’t punish herself for it.
She needs to make a food order soon, though that’s more of a decision than Misha is capable of making at the moment. Selene is the only reason she’s doing more than sitting on her couch and pouring cereal directly into her mouth. She needs to pull herself together, take a few minutes with the catalogue and make an order, but not yet. There’s still pasta, and Selene has vegetables and a few raw ingredients. They can make do until Misha can deal with the world again.
Lyme and Claudius would have tossed the fresh things before leaving, but likely there will be a few things in danger of going off. Misha closes her refrigerator, rests her forehead against the freezer door and closes her eyes. Nero will be neck-deep in guilt and worry over Enobaria; odds are he won’t have been by to clean Lyme’s kitchen out for her, and no one will have thought to do so for Claudius.
It’s stupid - what would Lyme or Claudius care if the food in their fridge rots - but it feels wrong to leave it there. Maybe the cleaning will be therapeutic, somehow, though the symbolism of throwing out rotten vegetables from her mentor’s kitchen feels a little more on the nose than Misha usually likes.
Still. If nothing else Misha could use the distraction, and so she heads out back where Selene is practicing moves with her sword. “Hey,” Misha calls. “I’m going to go to Lyme and Claudius’ houses, clear out their fridges and all that. Are you okay on your own for a while?”
Selene lowers her sword. “You should leave it,” she says, eyes narrowed. “Serves them right if it rots, and it’s not like they’re here to be bothered by the smell.”
Her girl indeed, albeit with a bit more vengeance. Misha crosses the yard and pulls her in for a one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “I know, but it’s not good to waste food. What would Emory say?”
“Then let Emory clean it out.”
“Emory has other things to worry about,” Misha says, and Selene winces. “It’s fine, wildcat, I’ll feel better when it’s done.”
Selene sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Yeah. I’ll work on my bike, then, unless you want me to come with you.”
She wouldn’t mind the company, no, but Misha also can’t see Selene going anywhere near Claudius’ house without wanting to smash something. “No, it’s okay, I’ve got it, and maybe we can take a walk out to the lake when I’m done. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
She means it, really she does, right until Artemisia opens Lyme’s refrigerator and sees it empty and scrubbed clean. Everything goes blank for a little while after that.
The sun is bleeding out onto the mountains by the time Artemisia makes it back to Selene’s house, channeling the pain in her feet from the broken glass and ceramic into the ground so she doesn’t limp. Emory bandaged up her feet with supplies from Lyme’s kit, and anyway a few lacerations on her soles don’t really add up to much.
Selene is still out back with her bikes, and she stands up and wipes her hands on a greasy rag when Artemisia rounds the corner. “Hey,” she says, raking her mentor up and down with a concerned gaze. “That took a long time.”
“Yeah.” Suddenly she’s tired, so, so tired, and it must have shown on her face because Selene runs over and slides an arm around her waist. Misha laughs, flat and humourless, and tugs her girl in closer. “You don’t need to worry, wildcat, claws in.”
“You don’t look okay,” Selene says, dogged and frowning, and when she’s on the hunt like this she’ll never let go.
Misha sighs. “Let’s go inside and then we can talk.”
She’d hoped she could get inside and find a pair of socks to cover her feet before Selene noticed, but as soon as Misha toes off her shoes Selene zeroes in on the bandages. “What’s that?” Selene gasps. “Misha, you’re hurt! What happened, are you okay?”
“I stepped on some glass, but Emory patched me up, so I’m okay.” Misha waves off Selene’s concern, but all that happens is her Victor drags her over to the couch and starts fluffing the cushions again. Misha starts to argue, she hardly needs to be fussed over by Emory and Selene in the same afternoon, but at least it’s better than Selene’s impotent rage.
At last Selene is satisfied, thankfully stopping short of wrapping Misha in blankets and setting her up with a bowl of soup, and Selene perches on the edge of the couch, looking at her mentor intently. This is not the kind of face that means she’ll be fobbed off with an excuse, and Misha drags a hand down her face.
“It was harder than I thought,” Misha says. “It was very - final.”
Selene nods, but sure enough her eyes drag back down to Misha’s bandaged feet. “What happened?”
Nothing for it. Misha takes a deep breath, watching Selene steel herself. “I - Lyme’s fridge was cleared out when I got there. I think … she knew she wasn’t coming back.” It doesn’t get any easier the more she says it, and Misha reaches down and picks at the edge of the bandage. Better that than the hangnail she’s started to worry at the edge of her thumb. “I got mad. There were some casualties of the tableware variety and I didn’t watch where I was walking. That’s all, I promise.”
Selene hisses, fingers curling into fists in her lap. “You can’t be serious.”
For an insane second Misha almost says it was a terrible attempt at humour brought on by too many stim pills and sleepless hours, but too late Selene’s expression hardens. Her jaw clenches, the lines around her eyes going tight, and Misha winces. “Lene, it’s okay.”
“Sure,” Selene says calmly, and Misha holds her breath because this is far worse than screaming. Like many of the Victors, Selene is far more dangerous when she’s calm. “It’s okay. Lyme knew she was going to leave you and she didn’t say a word, she just cleaned out her fridge like a coward. No reason to be upset about that.”
“That’s not what I said,” Misha chides her, more out of habit than anything. “I’m not pretending that it didn’t shake me, just, it doesn’t change anything. Maybe she knew ahead of time what she was going to do, it doesn’t make her any more gone. The only reason I freaked out is that I wasn’t expecting it.”
Selene grits her teeth and exhales through her nose. “It was bad enough that she hurt you. Now she knew she was going to hurt you and still did it anyway. How does that not make it worse? Claudius is an idiot, but she’s - she meant to do it!”
Misha very carefully does not let herself flinch. There’s a loose thread at the hem of her shirt that’s asking to be tugged at, but that would be showing too many nerves in front of a Victor who’s already agitated. “I can handle myself, Lene,” Misha tells her. “If you’re angry at Lyme for yourself, that’s fine, but I don’t need you being mad at her on my account.”
Maybe she’s an idiot, maybe she’s the Victor equivalent of a dog sticking by an owner who kicks it, but listening to Selene talk about Lyme like that makes Misha’s hackles rise. Not at Selene personally, it’s not her fault she’s protective, but even if Lyme abandoned her it doesn’t mean Misha can sit and hear her badmouthed.
Selene rears back. “You can’t decide that for me,” she snaps, but there’s hurt lurking underneath in the way she holds herself, angled slightly away, brows furrowed. “You’re my mentor and I love you and I don’t care who hurts you! You can’t tell me what Lyme did and then say I’m not allowed to be mad at her, okay? That’s not fair. She may be your mentor, but you’re mine.”
Misha lets out a long breath. It’s as though there’d been an iron band wrapped tight around her chest and Selene’s fiery-eyed, honest anger ripped it free. A laugh builds up inside her but she lets it fade, not wanting to offend her girl any more by accident, and instead Misha holds out one hand. “You’re right,” she says, thumbing Selene’s cheek. “You’re my girl, and I’m lucky to have you looking out for me.”
Selene lets out a half-satisfied, half-grumpy ‘hmph’ sound, but she lets Misha draw her in for a hug. Misha circles both arms around her shoulders and presses her cheek to the top of Selene’s head. “I love you too,” Misha says. “More than anything. I’m more grateful to have you here than you’ll ever know.”
“I’ve got some idea,” Selene says, curling her hand around Misha’s bicep and gripping tight. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”
“That will never, ever happen,” Misha says fiercely. And all right, she can’t make promises for her mentor, there’s no magic way to make Lyme honour the vows she made when Artemisia walked out of the Arena, but Misha can promise for herself well enough. “I’m sorry I tried to tell you how to feel, wildcat. I just - she’s my mentor and I still want to protect her, but you’re right. You’re my world.”
They spar a long time that night, and when it’s time for bed Misha hugs Selene tight. “Thank you,” she says, and her girl gives her a smile that chases the demons away for a little while.
The next morning, Misha wakes up when Selene pokes her head in the door. Selene waking up first is rare enough that Misha actually checks the position of the sun through the window, to make sure she didn’t accidentally sleep in. But no, the level of the sun is barely halfway up the trees, so that means something’s up.
Selene doesn’t look upset, though, only a little cagey, but it all makes sense when she ducks her head a little and says, “I made you breakfast.”
She did the same thing three years ago, after the roughest months of her recovery had left Artemisia despairing that Selene would ever come out the other side. One morning she’d shown up with a whole pile of food, and Misha had needed every bit of control the Centre drummed into her to stop herself from tackle-hugging the girl and probably sending her running.
Selene isn’t running now; she manoeuvres the door open with her shoulder and comes in carrying a tray. Just like before there are eggs and toast and fruit and pancakes, but even without eating it Misha can see that the pancakes are uniform and crisp around the edges, the eggs nicely fried. They’ve cooked breakfast together many times throughout the years, but Misha is usually the one who ends up cooking just because it takes Selene longer to roll out of bed and ooze down the stairs.
Three years ago Selene had only just begun to trust her; now, look where they are. Seeing Selene holding the tray and giving Misha a bright grin, looking pleased and proud and shy all at once, knocks the breath right out of her, leaving her reeling and fighting not to - what, she’s not sure, laugh or cry or both at once like she’s absolutely lost her mind.
Selene only grins wider as she sets the tray down on the bed. “I made fried eggs this time, I hear you like it more than egg stew.”
This time Misha does laugh, startled and pleased; it had been an offhand joke that first time, a way to keep herself from saying something sentimental but also to show Selene that they didn’t need to walk on eggshells with each other anymore. She hadn’t thought Selene would remember it three years later.
“C’mere, you,” Misha says, catching Selene up in a hug, though she’s careful not to knock the food over after Selene went through all that work.
They sit together, Selene fussing with the pillows and blankets and the tray balanced across both their knees, and Misha enjoys both the food and the company as they talk. The deja vu unsettles her now and then, but three years ago this kind of closeness had been new and uncertain. Three years ago Misha had marvelled at the wonder of it all, having Selene here without the bitterness or mistrust or slipping into a fugue state that lasted hours.
Now their camaraderie is familiar, the banter and affection comfortable; now Misha can say with utmost authority that there’s nothing - nothing - that could tear her girl away from her. The world could be on fire, is on fire, and she wouldn’t go anywhere unless Selene’s hand is safely in hers.
After they finish, Misha sets the tray on the floor and tugs Selene in for cuddles, her girl’s head tucked into her chest. “I’m going to be mushy for five seconds,” Misha says, making an elaborate show of looking at her bare wrist. Selene lets out a laugh but doesn’t argue, and Misha knocks her under the chin with her knuckles.
“Five, I love you,” Misha says, and Selene’s eyes soften, just a little. “Four, you’re the best Victor in the world. Three, I’m very proud of you.” Selene rolls her eyes but moves closer, and their fingers end up twined together. “Two, I am so glad you’re here with me. One, you’re my wildcat forever. Zero, okay let’s go hit things with swords.”
Selene laughs out loud and head-butts Misha in the shoulder. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, but that’s not actually a complaint; Misha knows her girl better than that.
They will hit things with swords, eventually, but not yet. First Selene grabs the blankets, crawls over Misha with an exaggerated yawn and tells her that as a reward for waking up so early and cooking like a responsible adult she’s going to go back to sleep for an hour. Misha chuckles and doesn’t argue, and she strokes Selene’s hair as her girl mock-snores for a few minutes before dozing off for real.
Lyme is still gone, the country still in uproar, and Misha has no idea what will happen an hour from now, let alone tomorrow or next week or in a month, but for now she has her Victor and really, there’s nothing else she needs.
Two days later, Peacekeepers show up to the Village and ask Selene if she would do President Snow the honour of helping him rally the people against the traitors. Misha’s blood chills - the president never asks for anything, and she might not have known that as a young, cocky Victor but the years since have knocked that piece of knowledge firmly into place - but she keeps her face impassive.
Selene straightens, raising her chin; her eyes are blue and hard and cold, and Misha can imagine her now on the television screen, unforgiving and unrelenting. Selene would not be a comfort to the people, no, but she would be a warning, and when people are too stubborn or scared to listen to reason, sometimes they can be forced.
“Yes,” Selene says immediately, not a flicker of hesitation anywhere, and if one of the men has a camera so the president can listen in, surely he’ll be pleased. “I’ll help any way I can - but only if Misha comes with me.”
“Of course,” says the Peacekeeper smoothly, and that’s not much of a surprise, at least. “The president would never wish for a victor to be separated from her mentor. Yours is welcome to join you as long as you remain a guest.”
The chill only grows, icy fingers reaching down Misha’s spine. It’s a common courtesy, since the Capitol is used to the inconvenience of dealing with protective mentors whenever they want to see one of the Twos, but now she can’t shake the feeling that it’s something else. That the president, speaking through his authorized Peacekeeper representative, is letting Misha know that yes, he knows exactly what happened to Lyme, though he likely doesn’t know where she’s gone any more than Misha does.
Paranoia, probably, and it won’t help, and so Misha pushes it aside.
Nero and Ronan end up coming with them, Ronan because the president requested his presence again and Nero because he insisted - out of guilt or duty, Misha doesn’t know, but when she tries to protest he sets his jaw and crosses his arms in a mannerism that Lyme inherited from him, and she gives up.
“It’ll be all right,” Selene says in the car as it pulls away from the Village. “We’re going to fix this.”
Misha turns over the box of brandy chocolates that the aide in the car handed to her when she sat down. She’s nowhere near as sure as Selene, but her girl is confident and for now has somewhere to put her anger, and that alone makes this situation better than a few days ago. “I’m proud of you,” she says, because that, at least, is true.
Selene gives her a sharp, predatory smile, then turns to look out the window and watch as the Village fades into the distance.
xanify and I wrote in uhhhh (checks) 2015 where everything in the Canon Divergence AU still happens except that Selene is the 72 Victor and Petra is the Peacekeeper. What happens when this time someone takes it personally that Claudius leaves? OH BOY!
Artemisia rests her head against the glass window of the train as the lights of Two flash past. It’s always been comforting, watching from the windows like this and seeing home draw near. The years she came home without a Victor she’d sat in the windowless car with the casket; any time she’d been here, seeing the sights, had been a better time. Appearances or timed scandals or sponsor hunts, or taking her girl in for a week in the city, then returning home to the Village and the mountains and her people.
She doesn’t have Two memorized from above like - like some people, and whenever she came back she’d try to guess where they were by the flashing landmarks. Most of the time she just made things up, and it was good fun inventing towns and histories and legends and that mountain that looked like a snooty nose.
Artemisia has gone and come back alone, of course, but not like this. Never like this. If Ronan had brought back some of the president’s poisoned biscuits she might have eaten one herself just to have an excuse to throw it up; her stomach’s heaving anyway, but Artemisia is hardly going to puke just because she’s upset. She hates throwing up and takes lengths to avoid it but maybe it would make her feel better to get rid of some of the awful bitterness inside her.
That’s a joke, see, because it’s never going to get better. Not without Lyme.
Eagle Mountain looms in the distance as the train loops around a long curve, and that, at least, Artemisia recognizes even late at night. Once the train goes through the tunnel she’ll lose signal until they’re almost at the Village, and with everything that’s gone one she bets no one has called ahead for a ride.
She closes her eyes and fishes out her phone from her pocket blind, punching Devon’s number in by speed dial. He picks up on the second ring, voice tense and sharp and not a bit bleary, and of course he wasn’t asleep. It’s horrible o’clock and Devon was never a night owl but his mentor disappeared from the screen and he won’t have had any word. “Misha, what happened, is everyone -“
“We’re just coming up to Eagle Mountain,” Artemisia says, cutting him off. Devon deserves to hear what happened to Brutus but she can’t, not now. “Maybe half an hour out. Bring the car and come pick us up at the station?”
Devon pauses. “Just my car? It can only fit four other people -”
She runs her hand down her face. “Yeah. Small group tonight.”
There’s a sound in the background, and the phone rattles as Devon takes it away from his face. “It’s Misha, she’s fine,” she hears him say, muffled and faraway. “I don’t know, they’re almost here.” Then he’s back, and of course he’s with Selene, of course he’s taking care of her. “Misha, it’s Selene, she wants to talk to you -“
Panic squeezes Artemisia’s chest. She can’t talk to her Victor, not now, not when she’s drowning and suffocating all at once. “Tell her I’m fine and I’m coming,” she says quickly. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Misha -“
“Lyme left me, okay?” Artemisia snaps, and it’s so easy to say, just a few syllables, a handful of sounds that mean the bottom fell out of her world. “She took Claudius and not me so I just - I can’t. I need time.”
She hangs up without waiting for an answer and shoves her phone back in her pocket, then pulls her knees back up to her chest and sits until the train hisses to a stop.
Artemisia would rather stay on the train forever, let it shuttle back and forth between Two and the Capitol while she sits here and gets old alone, except - no, no, that’s not true. Not quite. She’s lost everything except she hasn’t because Selene is in the Village, waiting for her, Selene awake at three in the morning and demanding answers from Devon, Selene who’s about to find out that her friend left her behind and didn’t even say goodbye.
She’s up and headed for the door before she remembers moving, pushing past the attendants and stumbling onto the platform. Devon is waiting - alone, the car isn’t big enough for him to bring Selene with him - and Artemisia wants to hug him, let him hold her and make it all right but she can’t. Her mentor is gone and his is dead and he’ll need all the strength he can keep tonight.
Devon takes one look at her face and turns away, anyway, and Artemisia doesn’t bother trying to find the right words to say. She climbs into the car, folds herself into the middle seat in the back and waits for the others. Soon enough Odin and Nero cram in on either side of her, Ronan taking the front passenger seat without complaint, and Devon drives them back.
It’s a silent ride, oppressively so. Artemisia’s shoulders feel cold and bare without Lyme’s arm around them; she keeps wanting to lean into her mentor’s side and feel Lyme’s cheek against her hair. Instead she sits upright, rigid with her hands pressed between her knees, until the car pulls up to the gate and the others pile out.
Selene stands just off the path, hands at her sides so she won’t twist her fingers or pull at her hair. She’s wearing one of the shirts Artemisia left behind and a determined expression that doesn’t quite stick around the edges, and Artemisia closes the distance between them and pulls her in for a fierce hug.
Selene lets out a startled sound and hugs back, and Artemisia holds on long after she would normally let go, holds on even as Devon and Odin argue quietly and Nero disappears up the path.
“Misha -“ Selene says finally. “Devon said - Lyme and Claudius, what happened -“
She’s scared but trying to be strong and that, more than anything, clinches it. Artemisia might not have a mentor anymore but she still is one, and Selene needs her. Artemisia steps back, holds her girl’s face in her hands and rests their foreheads together. “Ronan is going to have a meeting,” Artemisia says. “He knows more than I do. I need you to go, hear what he has to say, and then come find me. Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” Selene says, eyes searching Artemisia’s face. “You’re not coming?”
If she has to sit in the meeting hall and listen to Ronan explain what happened in a cool, professional manner - Lyme’s gone, Lyme left her, Lyme didn’t say goodbye or even leave a note or anything - Artemisia will end up putting a knife in the wall.
“It’s been a long night and I don’t think I can sit through the meeting right now,” Artemisia says, and that’s true enough, anyway. “But I’ll be at home after when you come see me. I’m not going to leave you.” She didn’t mean to say that last part; it just slipped out, but once it does it sticks in her skin. “You understand that, right?”
Selene frowns. “Of course I do!” she bursts out. “You’re my mentor, you’d never -“
“I am your mentor, and damn right I’d never,” Artemisia says, and everything is horrible except for this, right here, looking at her girl and seeing unwavering faith. (Until today Artemisia’s faith in Lyme had been just as strong; until today she’d never thought Lyme would abandon her, but all that means is that she will do better.)
“Good,” Selene says fiercely, and she has no idea what’s going on but just like giving her a sword and telling her to go for it, there’s something she knows to be true in front of her and she’ll cling to it. Artemisia is happy to be that thing. “Because I wouldn’t let you anyway.”
Artemisia smiles and kisses her forehead. “That’s because you’re my girl. Go to the meeting, I’ll see you after.”
Selene nods and lets Devon draw her away, and Artemisia takes the path to her house alone.
It’s stuffy after being closed up the past couple of weeks, and Artemisia makes the rounds and opens all the windows. She hasn’t eaten since breakfast the day before but her stomach tightens at the thought of food, so instead she heats up water for tea and sets it to steep. She’s still wearing her Capitol-made clothes, and while the long hours at the mentor console mean her stylist couldn’t put her in anything too ridiculous, it’s still far too poised and crafted and silk, for fuck’s sake, and suddenly Artemisia can’t take it anymore.
She strips down right there in the kitchen like a fresh-out Victor, kicks the clothes into a pile and stares down at it, shaking. Artemisia has a whole dresser full of t-shirts and jeans upstairs, worn and comfortable and smelling like home, but she can’t step over the ones on her floor. She’s stuck, trapped by the tangible reminder of where she’s been and what she’s seen over the last few days, and more than anything Artemisia wants them gone.
There are matches in the drawer, and the itch sets up in her fingers, driving her to root around and find the box. Artemisia pulls a match free, drags it against the rough panel on the side until it catches and lights with a satisfying hiss and flash of smoke and sulphur. The little flicker of flame dances at her fingertips, and it’s been years since the last time Artemisia set something on fire but you never really forget.
She could scoop up the clothes, stuff them in a trash can and drop a match, and then they’d really be gone, nothing more than blackened fabric and ashes. She could watch the beautiful orange glow and let it calm her the way nothing else used to, before the Centre and before the Arena. Before anyone taught her how to hold a sword and channel her anger and frustration that way; before Lyme dragged her up and promised her she would always have someone looking out for her.
The match burns down to Artemisia’s fingers; she yelps and waves it out without thinking, and the absurdity of everything hits her smack in the face. She’s thirty-five years old, standing in the middle of her kitchen in her underwear, holding a box of matches and contemplating lighting her clothes on fire.
“You leave me for what, three hours?” Artemisia says to the empty room. “Look what happens when you’re not here.”
It would be nice to fall apart, really, burn the whole damn place down to show Lyme that no, actually, it was not okay to leave, that her girl was not okay on her own, that a mentor’s job is never over and you can’t just pack up without a word and think it’s okay because your job is done. Lyme would never know, of course, that’s the stupid part, but it would make Artemisia feel better anyway. Her mentor leaves and she goes back to being batshit crazy, it’s poetic, almost. Freeing, too; Enobaria never owned up to anything and almost no one ever asked her to because they understood she came out wrong and it wasn’t fair to push her.
If Artemisia lost her mind they’d do the same thing to her. It would be her mentor’s fault for leaving, not hers, and Artemisia would become the new Village secret, too unstable to be allowed outside without supervision. Apropos, with Enobaria missing.
Except then Artemisia’s gaze falls on a bowl on her counter, a little bit lumpy with uneven glaze and a streaky paint job. It’s the one Selene made the time she dabbled with pottery as a Talent before settling on dance, and despite Selene’s protestations of embarrassment, Artemisia has kept it to hold fruit in since the day Selene gave it to her.
There was a time when Artemisia could have gone happily insane and let that take away all responsibility, all the hurt and betrayal and swallow it up under the fog of meds and crazy, but that time ended three years ago. It ended when Selene walked out of the Arena blood-spattered and wild-eyed and alive; from that moment Artemisia stopped living for herself, and she’s never looked back.
Artemisia trained herself to be a morning person and how to keep her house vaguely neat so she would be a good example to her girl; she can’t throw that all away by diving off the deep end now. She places the matches back in the junk drawer, picks up the clothes and carries them to the hamper to be washed and put away later, then strips off and steps into the shower to wash away the last of the hair gel and ‘natural’ makeup. Can’t look ragged three days in, the sponsors will be turned off, and Artemisia turns the hot water up until her skin turns pink and the last of the cosmetics swirl down the drain.
She doesn’t bother drying her hair, just blots it with a towel and pulls it back into a damp braid before pulling on a pair of pyjamas. It takes Artemisia a good five minutes to find a sleep shirt that isn’t a pilfered one of Lyme’s, but finally she pulls out one of the ones she took from Devon as a girlfriend trophy, and that’ll do.
Her tea, when Artemisia makes it back to the kitchen, has long gone cold, and it’s steeped so thick the aftertaste nearly peels the roof of her mouth off. She shrugs and drinks it down anyway, wincing at the sharp sourness. After that there’s not much to do but wait, and it’s not long before the door opens and Selene steps in.
“Hey, wildcat,” Artemisia says, holding out one arm. “C’mere.”
Selene walks slowly, dazedly, eyes not quite focused on where she’s going. “He left,” she says, and she makes it to the couch after stumbling into the coffee table and collapses against Artemisia’s side. “He just - we’re friends, or I thought we were, and he just left! He didn’t call me or anything! Why would he do that?”
Artemisia hisses out a breath and wraps both arms around Selene’s shoulders. “He left because his mentor asked him to,” she said. “You know Claudius. He’d chew his own arm off before he said no to Lyme.”
“So would you!” Selene bursts out, twisting in her arms to look up at her, eyes wide and desperate. “You love Lyme too, but you wouldn’t have done that! You wouldn’t have left me, if she’d asked you to go.”
Artemisia actually growls, hauls Selene in even closer until she has to be half crushing her, but Selene only tightens her grip on her mentor’s waist. “No, I wouldn’t have,” Artemisia says fiercely, kissing the top of Selene’s head. “Lyme is my mentor but you’re my wildcat, and you win out every time.” She strokes a hand over Selene’s back, slow and soothing. “I guess that’s why she didn’t ask.”
“I hate him for leaving,” Selene says, and no she doesn’t - she might, and soon, but not yet, tonight it’s just shock and grief and hurt - but Artemisia says nothing, only holds her close. “If he doesn’t care then I don’t care. He can go fuck himself. I don’t need him if he doesn’t need me.”
Claudius was Artemisia’s little brother but he’s Selene’s best friend, or the closest thing she’s had to one since winning. He was one of the first to try to befriend her and the first who succeeded, and they’ve spent the last two years hanging out and friend-sparring and climbing trees together. Claudius rolled his eyes and laughed whenever Selene ditched him for half an hour at the bar to go kiss pretty strangers, and she made endless fun of him for panicking and hiding behind her whenever anyone dared to hit on him.
They’re a good pair, or they were, and Artemisia should have stopped this, somehow. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she’s the mentor and she needs to be Selene’s rock but her voice cracks anyhow. “Lene, I’m sorry, I should have known and stopped him from going. I didn’t want this to happen.”
Selene pulls back, eyes bright and blazing, and she pins Artemisia in place with the intensity of her gaze. “No!” she says, fingers twisting in Artemisia’s shirt. “No, no, don’t, I’d rather you here than him. You’re my mentor and I love you and it’s not your fault, please don’t be sad!”
Artemisia laughs, and she draws Selene in for another hug. “I always listen to my wildcat,” she says, and the ground stops listing beneath her feet quite so much. “Can I stay with you tonight? I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you too,” Selene says into Artemisia’s shoulder. “I’d like that.”
Selene’s house doesn’t smell like dust and abandonment, and that alone takes an edge off of Artemisia’s nerves. It’s too warm for a proper nest but Artemisia tugs a light blanket over them anyway, shifting to lie down with Selene curled up against her side. They haven’t slept like this since - well, since ever, as even in the depths of her recovery Selene shied away from touch, but this isn’t just about Selene. Not if the way her girl fusses and arranges a cushion under Artemisia’s head and asks if she needs anything is any indication; Artemisia’s desperation must be written just as clearly across her own face.
Artemisia has spent all her time since the train buried in paperwork or talking to sponsors or curled up in the uncomfortable chairs in mentor central, anything to keep herself busy so she didn’t think too hard about the big picture. She hasn’t really been Misha since the morning of the Reaping, half a lifetime away; she and Lyme barely spoke, and when they did it was only ever about work and Lyme used her full name.
She might not see her mentor ever again, and Artemisia can’t even recall the last thing they said to each other. It’s a stupid thing to get upset about in the grand scheme of things, but it sticks her in the skin anyhow.
“Hey, wildcat?” Artemisia says, brushing a hand over Selene’s hair. Her girl makes a small noise and noses her shoulder. “Can you do me a favour, say my name for me?”
“Misha?” Selene says, voice lilting up in confusion and turning it into a question.
Artemisia lets out a long breath, trying to exhale the last of the Capitol and the Games and the betrayal from her system. She’s home and she has her girl; everything else will come from here. “Thanks,” she says - Selene doesn’t ask, just cuddles close - and Misha takes a new, deep breath.
Misha gives Selene one last kiss on the forehead, then closes her eyes and settles in for a restless sleep.
The Village is a sleepwalk the next morning, the others going through the motions of their routine without much interaction. They avoid Misha - maybe they think treason is catching, except if that were true then she wouldn’t be here now would she - and she avoids them. She can’t even go see Devon, not when her mentor is alive and his is dead; it would feel selfish and all-around terrible to complain about her mentor leaving when Brutus has no chance of coming back.
The sad thing is that Emory probably wouldn’t begrudge Misha some comfort even with Brutus dead, but Misha can’t bring herself to do that, not yet. She likes the older Victor a lot, always has, but there’s something about her that makes Misha feel selfish for being human. The fact that Emory would recoil from that and tell her it’s not true only makes it worse.
Selene’s anger at Claudius only burns hotter as the day wears on, and Misha can’t exactly tell her not to be. For her part Misha isn’t angry with him, not when he’s wanted Lyme as his mentor since he was waist-high. Maybe if Misha didn’t have a Victor of her own she might have chosen to follow Lyme, insane plan or no; but for Claudius there was never any other option. He has no Victor of his own, and no other family like Devon. For him there’s Lyme and only Lyme, and that’s all there ever will be.
But of course Selene won’t see it that way, nor should she. She’s younger, and while Claudius leaving Misha stings, it’s not the betrayal it is for her girl. The two of them are friends - maybe would have been more, one day, like Misha and Devon or maybe something of their own - and Selene is young. She’s been out three years, not eighteen, and the abandonment is less a slap than it is a punch in the gut. Misha allows the anger because it’s better than whatever would be there underneath if she stripped it away; she can manage Selene’s rage, but a full breakdown would be far messier.
They spar for most of the day and curl up together for the rest. At one point Misha tries flicking through the channels on the television but they’re all blank, save for the spinning Capitol logo and a warning for loyal citizens to stay in their homes and await information. At least there are no arrest warrants or pictures of wanted citizens; if Misha had turned on the screen to see Lyme’s face on a wanted ad she might have thrown a shoe right through it.
By the end of the day they’re both bruised and exhausted, but for now most of Selene’s fury has been worked through, leaving her tired and quiet but no longer seething. She picks at her food, mashing the pasta against the side of her bowl with her fork, and if she could Misha would pick her up and carry her upstairs to sleep except that Selene would balk at that. (Misha doesn’t blame her; she’d’ve lost her shit if Lyme tried to carry her anywhere except under the most drugged circumstances, but being a mentor tends to skew things a little.)
“Can I stay again?” Misha asks instead. “You’ve got the spare room, and I’d rather not be alone again. Call me superstitious, but after the last few months I’d like to know you’re close.”
“Of course,” Selene says immediately. “Whatever you need.”
What Misha needs is something only one person can give her, and unfortunately that person is never going to do it, but there’s no point in moping about it. “I’m going to go back home tonight and pick up some clothes for the next few days,” Misha says. “I mean, not if you don’t want me to stay, but I think I’m going to want you around for a little while.”
Selene nods. “What do you think is happening?” she asks. “Out in the districts, I mean. The broadcast just - shut off, and there hasn’t been anything since.”
“Riots, probably,” Misha says, shrugging. “People lose their minds in a crisis, especially out there. Hopefully here in Two people calm the fuck down and don’t try anything stupid.”
“We’re not traitors,” Selene says scornfully, and then the line of her shoulders tightens. “Most of us, anyway.” A moment later she grimaces, reaches out a hand to touch Misha’s arm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean - they’re ours, I know, and Lyme’s your mentor - but they turned their back on us. What else are we supposed to think?”
Selene isn’t Emory, and Misha isn’t Brutus; neither of them care very much for duty and honour and sacrifice, but sometimes a duck is just a duck. “I think it doesn’t matter what we call it,” Misha says honestly. “They did what they did and that’s that.” Selene’s expression has gone dark again, and Misha sighs and pushes away her plate. “Come on, wildcat, let’s go spar some more.”
The day after that, Misha stands in Selene’s kitchen, looking into the fridge and trying to drum up enough enthusiasm to eat something. Selene has been watching her with sharp-eyed concern even as she tries not to let Misha see, and if she catches her mentor ducking her food it will only upset her. Be a good example, Misha reminds herself; let Selene see it’s all right to be affected, but don’t punish herself for it.
She needs to make a food order soon, though that’s more of a decision than Misha is capable of making at the moment. Selene is the only reason she’s doing more than sitting on her couch and pouring cereal directly into her mouth. She needs to pull herself together, take a few minutes with the catalogue and make an order, but not yet. There’s still pasta, and Selene has vegetables and a few raw ingredients. They can make do until Misha can deal with the world again.
Lyme and Claudius would have tossed the fresh things before leaving, but likely there will be a few things in danger of going off. Misha closes her refrigerator, rests her forehead against the freezer door and closes her eyes. Nero will be neck-deep in guilt and worry over Enobaria; odds are he won’t have been by to clean Lyme’s kitchen out for her, and no one will have thought to do so for Claudius.
It’s stupid - what would Lyme or Claudius care if the food in their fridge rots - but it feels wrong to leave it there. Maybe the cleaning will be therapeutic, somehow, though the symbolism of throwing out rotten vegetables from her mentor’s kitchen feels a little more on the nose than Misha usually likes.
Still. If nothing else Misha could use the distraction, and so she heads out back where Selene is practicing moves with her sword. “Hey,” Misha calls. “I’m going to go to Lyme and Claudius’ houses, clear out their fridges and all that. Are you okay on your own for a while?”
Selene lowers her sword. “You should leave it,” she says, eyes narrowed. “Serves them right if it rots, and it’s not like they’re here to be bothered by the smell.”
Her girl indeed, albeit with a bit more vengeance. Misha crosses the yard and pulls her in for a one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “I know, but it’s not good to waste food. What would Emory say?”
“Then let Emory clean it out.”
“Emory has other things to worry about,” Misha says, and Selene winces. “It’s fine, wildcat, I’ll feel better when it’s done.”
Selene sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Yeah. I’ll work on my bike, then, unless you want me to come with you.”
She wouldn’t mind the company, no, but Misha also can’t see Selene going anywhere near Claudius’ house without wanting to smash something. “No, it’s okay, I’ve got it, and maybe we can take a walk out to the lake when I’m done. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
She means it, really she does, right until Artemisia opens Lyme’s refrigerator and sees it empty and scrubbed clean. Everything goes blank for a little while after that.
The sun is bleeding out onto the mountains by the time Artemisia makes it back to Selene’s house, channeling the pain in her feet from the broken glass and ceramic into the ground so she doesn’t limp. Emory bandaged up her feet with supplies from Lyme’s kit, and anyway a few lacerations on her soles don’t really add up to much.
Selene is still out back with her bikes, and she stands up and wipes her hands on a greasy rag when Artemisia rounds the corner. “Hey,” she says, raking her mentor up and down with a concerned gaze. “That took a long time.”
“Yeah.” Suddenly she’s tired, so, so tired, and it must have shown on her face because Selene runs over and slides an arm around her waist. Misha laughs, flat and humourless, and tugs her girl in closer. “You don’t need to worry, wildcat, claws in.”
“You don’t look okay,” Selene says, dogged and frowning, and when she’s on the hunt like this she’ll never let go.
Misha sighs. “Let’s go inside and then we can talk.”
She’d hoped she could get inside and find a pair of socks to cover her feet before Selene noticed, but as soon as Misha toes off her shoes Selene zeroes in on the bandages. “What’s that?” Selene gasps. “Misha, you’re hurt! What happened, are you okay?”
“I stepped on some glass, but Emory patched me up, so I’m okay.” Misha waves off Selene’s concern, but all that happens is her Victor drags her over to the couch and starts fluffing the cushions again. Misha starts to argue, she hardly needs to be fussed over by Emory and Selene in the same afternoon, but at least it’s better than Selene’s impotent rage.
At last Selene is satisfied, thankfully stopping short of wrapping Misha in blankets and setting her up with a bowl of soup, and Selene perches on the edge of the couch, looking at her mentor intently. This is not the kind of face that means she’ll be fobbed off with an excuse, and Misha drags a hand down her face.
“It was harder than I thought,” Misha says. “It was very - final.”
Selene nods, but sure enough her eyes drag back down to Misha’s bandaged feet. “What happened?”
Nothing for it. Misha takes a deep breath, watching Selene steel herself. “I - Lyme’s fridge was cleared out when I got there. I think … she knew she wasn’t coming back.” It doesn’t get any easier the more she says it, and Misha reaches down and picks at the edge of the bandage. Better that than the hangnail she’s started to worry at the edge of her thumb. “I got mad. There were some casualties of the tableware variety and I didn’t watch where I was walking. That’s all, I promise.”
Selene hisses, fingers curling into fists in her lap. “You can’t be serious.”
For an insane second Misha almost says it was a terrible attempt at humour brought on by too many stim pills and sleepless hours, but too late Selene’s expression hardens. Her jaw clenches, the lines around her eyes going tight, and Misha winces. “Lene, it’s okay.”
“Sure,” Selene says calmly, and Misha holds her breath because this is far worse than screaming. Like many of the Victors, Selene is far more dangerous when she’s calm. “It’s okay. Lyme knew she was going to leave you and she didn’t say a word, she just cleaned out her fridge like a coward. No reason to be upset about that.”
“That’s not what I said,” Misha chides her, more out of habit than anything. “I’m not pretending that it didn’t shake me, just, it doesn’t change anything. Maybe she knew ahead of time what she was going to do, it doesn’t make her any more gone. The only reason I freaked out is that I wasn’t expecting it.”
Selene grits her teeth and exhales through her nose. “It was bad enough that she hurt you. Now she knew she was going to hurt you and still did it anyway. How does that not make it worse? Claudius is an idiot, but she’s - she meant to do it!”
Misha very carefully does not let herself flinch. There’s a loose thread at the hem of her shirt that’s asking to be tugged at, but that would be showing too many nerves in front of a Victor who’s already agitated. “I can handle myself, Lene,” Misha tells her. “If you’re angry at Lyme for yourself, that’s fine, but I don’t need you being mad at her on my account.”
Maybe she’s an idiot, maybe she’s the Victor equivalent of a dog sticking by an owner who kicks it, but listening to Selene talk about Lyme like that makes Misha’s hackles rise. Not at Selene personally, it’s not her fault she’s protective, but even if Lyme abandoned her it doesn’t mean Misha can sit and hear her badmouthed.
Selene rears back. “You can’t decide that for me,” she snaps, but there’s hurt lurking underneath in the way she holds herself, angled slightly away, brows furrowed. “You’re my mentor and I love you and I don’t care who hurts you! You can’t tell me what Lyme did and then say I’m not allowed to be mad at her, okay? That’s not fair. She may be your mentor, but you’re mine.”
Misha lets out a long breath. It’s as though there’d been an iron band wrapped tight around her chest and Selene’s fiery-eyed, honest anger ripped it free. A laugh builds up inside her but she lets it fade, not wanting to offend her girl any more by accident, and instead Misha holds out one hand. “You’re right,” she says, thumbing Selene’s cheek. “You’re my girl, and I’m lucky to have you looking out for me.”
Selene lets out a half-satisfied, half-grumpy ‘hmph’ sound, but she lets Misha draw her in for a hug. Misha circles both arms around her shoulders and presses her cheek to the top of Selene’s head. “I love you too,” Misha says. “More than anything. I’m more grateful to have you here than you’ll ever know.”
“I’ve got some idea,” Selene says, curling her hand around Misha’s bicep and gripping tight. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”
“That will never, ever happen,” Misha says fiercely. And all right, she can’t make promises for her mentor, there’s no magic way to make Lyme honour the vows she made when Artemisia walked out of the Arena, but Misha can promise for herself well enough. “I’m sorry I tried to tell you how to feel, wildcat. I just - she’s my mentor and I still want to protect her, but you’re right. You’re my world.”
They spar a long time that night, and when it’s time for bed Misha hugs Selene tight. “Thank you,” she says, and her girl gives her a smile that chases the demons away for a little while.
The next morning, Misha wakes up when Selene pokes her head in the door. Selene waking up first is rare enough that Misha actually checks the position of the sun through the window, to make sure she didn’t accidentally sleep in. But no, the level of the sun is barely halfway up the trees, so that means something’s up.
Selene doesn’t look upset, though, only a little cagey, but it all makes sense when she ducks her head a little and says, “I made you breakfast.”
She did the same thing three years ago, after the roughest months of her recovery had left Artemisia despairing that Selene would ever come out the other side. One morning she’d shown up with a whole pile of food, and Misha had needed every bit of control the Centre drummed into her to stop herself from tackle-hugging the girl and probably sending her running.
Selene isn’t running now; she manoeuvres the door open with her shoulder and comes in carrying a tray. Just like before there are eggs and toast and fruit and pancakes, but even without eating it Misha can see that the pancakes are uniform and crisp around the edges, the eggs nicely fried. They’ve cooked breakfast together many times throughout the years, but Misha is usually the one who ends up cooking just because it takes Selene longer to roll out of bed and ooze down the stairs.
Three years ago Selene had only just begun to trust her; now, look where they are. Seeing Selene holding the tray and giving Misha a bright grin, looking pleased and proud and shy all at once, knocks the breath right out of her, leaving her reeling and fighting not to - what, she’s not sure, laugh or cry or both at once like she’s absolutely lost her mind.
Selene only grins wider as she sets the tray down on the bed. “I made fried eggs this time, I hear you like it more than egg stew.”
This time Misha does laugh, startled and pleased; it had been an offhand joke that first time, a way to keep herself from saying something sentimental but also to show Selene that they didn’t need to walk on eggshells with each other anymore. She hadn’t thought Selene would remember it three years later.
“C’mere, you,” Misha says, catching Selene up in a hug, though she’s careful not to knock the food over after Selene went through all that work.
They sit together, Selene fussing with the pillows and blankets and the tray balanced across both their knees, and Misha enjoys both the food and the company as they talk. The deja vu unsettles her now and then, but three years ago this kind of closeness had been new and uncertain. Three years ago Misha had marvelled at the wonder of it all, having Selene here without the bitterness or mistrust or slipping into a fugue state that lasted hours.
Now their camaraderie is familiar, the banter and affection comfortable; now Misha can say with utmost authority that there’s nothing - nothing - that could tear her girl away from her. The world could be on fire, is on fire, and she wouldn’t go anywhere unless Selene’s hand is safely in hers.
After they finish, Misha sets the tray on the floor and tugs Selene in for cuddles, her girl’s head tucked into her chest. “I’m going to be mushy for five seconds,” Misha says, making an elaborate show of looking at her bare wrist. Selene lets out a laugh but doesn’t argue, and Misha knocks her under the chin with her knuckles.
“Five, I love you,” Misha says, and Selene’s eyes soften, just a little. “Four, you’re the best Victor in the world. Three, I’m very proud of you.” Selene rolls her eyes but moves closer, and their fingers end up twined together. “Two, I am so glad you’re here with me. One, you’re my wildcat forever. Zero, okay let’s go hit things with swords.”
Selene laughs out loud and head-butts Misha in the shoulder. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, but that’s not actually a complaint; Misha knows her girl better than that.
They will hit things with swords, eventually, but not yet. First Selene grabs the blankets, crawls over Misha with an exaggerated yawn and tells her that as a reward for waking up so early and cooking like a responsible adult she’s going to go back to sleep for an hour. Misha chuckles and doesn’t argue, and she strokes Selene’s hair as her girl mock-snores for a few minutes before dozing off for real.
Lyme is still gone, the country still in uproar, and Misha has no idea what will happen an hour from now, let alone tomorrow or next week or in a month, but for now she has her Victor and really, there’s nothing else she needs.
Two days later, Peacekeepers show up to the Village and ask Selene if she would do President Snow the honour of helping him rally the people against the traitors. Misha’s blood chills - the president never asks for anything, and she might not have known that as a young, cocky Victor but the years since have knocked that piece of knowledge firmly into place - but she keeps her face impassive.
Selene straightens, raising her chin; her eyes are blue and hard and cold, and Misha can imagine her now on the television screen, unforgiving and unrelenting. Selene would not be a comfort to the people, no, but she would be a warning, and when people are too stubborn or scared to listen to reason, sometimes they can be forced.
“Yes,” Selene says immediately, not a flicker of hesitation anywhere, and if one of the men has a camera so the president can listen in, surely he’ll be pleased. “I’ll help any way I can - but only if Misha comes with me.”
“Of course,” says the Peacekeeper smoothly, and that’s not much of a surprise, at least. “The president would never wish for a victor to be separated from her mentor. Yours is welcome to join you as long as you remain a guest.”
The chill only grows, icy fingers reaching down Misha’s spine. It’s a common courtesy, since the Capitol is used to the inconvenience of dealing with protective mentors whenever they want to see one of the Twos, but now she can’t shake the feeling that it’s something else. That the president, speaking through his authorized Peacekeeper representative, is letting Misha know that yes, he knows exactly what happened to Lyme, though he likely doesn’t know where she’s gone any more than Misha does.
Paranoia, probably, and it won’t help, and so Misha pushes it aside.
Nero and Ronan end up coming with them, Ronan because the president requested his presence again and Nero because he insisted - out of guilt or duty, Misha doesn’t know, but when she tries to protest he sets his jaw and crosses his arms in a mannerism that Lyme inherited from him, and she gives up.
“It’ll be all right,” Selene says in the car as it pulls away from the Village. “We’re going to fix this.”
Misha turns over the box of brandy chocolates that the aide in the car handed to her when she sat down. She’s nowhere near as sure as Selene, but her girl is confident and for now has somewhere to put her anger, and that alone makes this situation better than a few days ago. “I’m proud of you,” she says, because that, at least, is true.
Selene gives her a sharp, predatory smile, then turns to look out the window and watch as the Village fades into the distance.