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The service is a drawn-out, horrid affair in her opinion.
Had she not other matters to keep an eye out for, she would have long left after paying her respects.
Maximinius would have adored it however — the posturing and politics. No doubt he would have been analyzing everyone's actions had he been present.
Had Antonius’ speech been too curt? Had Creed’s grief been too artificial?
She could almost imagine his voice nitpicking on every detail. Were he a woman, they would have called him a shrew.
But no, because he had been a man, they called it politics.
The remainder of the service is a blur to her.
She is unashamed to admit that she retreats to the privacy of her thoughts instead.
Idly, she wondered what Maximinius would have said if he knew the part she played in his demise.
Had he known? Or suspected it?
After all, she had been the one to shape his soon-to-be successor.
Would he think her heartless for not lifting a finger to prevent it?
A wave of nausea hit — Guilt? No, not that. Never that. It must be the combination of an empty stomach and the awful stench of packing of so many bodies into the same room.
To those around her, her expression remained unperturbed. A skill long perfected from birth to the chagrin of her former attendings — where during some of her rotations, they had remarked that she needed to be more human, that her bedside manner was severely lacking.
A ridiculous notion, if she were to be honest, to pretend and give false platitudes.
No, Max would have understood.
Perhaps not initially. But after a foolish tantrum or two, in the end, he would have understood why she could not interfere.
In a way, they were of the same vein. He was one of the few, if the only one, who understood her in a manner that few bothered to. To call him a friend, however, was something she was cautious of doing. While they had certainly known each other long enough, he was—
Well, she supposed she could name him such.
Maximinius had funded her games, signed off on experiments. Were it not for him, her path to Head of the War Department would not have been as easygoing as it had been.
In turn, she had sat through his rambles whenever he was feeling particularly sentimental and foolish, particularly when it came to a long-deceased doctor. Though if she were to be honest, she had long learned to tune out his rambles on his undying affections for the man.
On second thought, those affections were no longer undying if he too were deceased.
But the point was, he would have understood.
Just as he had understood why the games were necessary.
The only noteworthy performance of the speeches is by one Gloriam Snow.
Oh how Max would have despised it — the crying, the glamourizing and whatnot.
Please. A hero? A selfless patriot?
No, Maximinius Ravinstill was as selfish a patrician as they came, filled with vices that would make silly Gloriam clutch her pearls.
And if the woman could not see it, then perhaps she was clinically stupid. All the chemicals from her incessant need to be perceived as a blonde back then must have destroyed what little brain cells she had in the first place.
Her appetite is non-existent in spite of the generous spread laid out afterwards. If anything, the sight of the salad and the colourful desserts is enough to cause her stomach to turn.
As such, Volumnia only took a glass of wine.
Optics, Maximinius would have called it.
She called it practicality as it would prevent anyone from trying to offer her any food.
Turning away from the tables, she caught a sickening whiff of florals. Few people adored roses so. But when she turned her head, she found to her immense disappointment that it was not Gloriam.
Rather, it was young Coriolanus, and only Gloriam’s grandson would have such awful sense to wear velvet in July. Following the man’s gaze, she was equal parts exasperated and unsurprised to see who it landed on.
Of course it was to Clemensia.
It did not matter where she went, but his eyes always gravitated towards the dark-haired young woman no matter where she went.
For Panem’s sake. What happened to decorum? This was a funeral.
Sometimes she thought him far worse than Maximinius had ever been with Hector.
She did not know what it was about the Dovecotes that entranced people so.
People called them charming.
She thought them cancerous. Invasive. Near impossible to excise, for Maximinus had never truly gotten over Hector, and it seemed that Coriolanus was fated to follow in his predecessor’s footsteps with Clemensia.
It is near sickening to watch those two whenever she comes across them.
Months later, not even the Citadel affords her refuge.
All she had wanted was something to take off the edge — incompetent interns were unfortunately a dime a dozen — and she had no choice but to take her break outside her laboratory.
Thus she pins the source of her ire onto Antonia — were it not for the pesky hag being so uptight with rules of no smoking in enclosed spaces, she would not have to bear witness to what had followed.
To the way, Coriolanus’ eyes had twitched when she’d passed by with her hand resting in another man’s arms. The narrowing of the eyes and the false civility did not fool Volumnia one bit.
As Maximinius had once been before all the deaths, the blond could put on a charming mask when the occasion called for it, though Coriolanus usually made it a tad more natural.
His backhanded compliments, however, had not escaped her nor Clemensia, for her civility turned cool before she walked off.
Yet Coriolanus’ eyes had followed after her departure, lingering in the direction even long after she was out of sight.
Was she doomed to watch yet another trial of hers fail?
Loath as Volumnia was to admit a failure on her part, she may have underestimated the relationship between these two.
Still.
After the snake incident from some years back, she could not risk intervening. Too much external interference would spoil the experiment entirely, and if she wanted it to turn out well this time, she could only watch as this trial’s participants muddled on their lives.
The next time she sees them both is almost a year later, at a gathering celebrating Coriolanus being sworn into office.
Their relationship must have warmed since the last time, as this time, she stands beside him, all smiles, the kind that spoke of genuineness. And for a man who had sworn off weakness, he was demonstrating otherwise with the way he had leaned in to whisper something into Clemensia’s ear.
Were Volumnia fond of gossip, she might have remarked out loud that in the moment, the two looked more like a couple than Coriolanus and his date for the night did — an unfortunate Livia Cardew.
That smile, however, faded when Volumnia approached, transforming into a cool expression that was all too reminiscent of the young woman’s late grandmother. “Dr. Gaul.”
“Miss Dovecote.”
Call it curiosity.
While Volumnia knew she could not interfere too much in her experiment, she could not help but wonder just whether the Dovecote had learned her lesson on the dangers of lying.
Courtesy was the young woman’s armour.
And if she believed that expression was all Clemensia had inherited from the late Cleopatra, then she would be sorely wrong when the young woman spoke of her quaint career as an attorney. “Someone has to advocate for the public after all. Especially when the system fails them in favour of other interests.”
The eyes are Hector’s.
But oh, that smile and tone? That was all but dripping in that wretched woman’s name.
Less than a week later, Wayne visits her in her office at the Citadel. The elderly doctor was pale, his hand shaking as he closed the door behind him. “There is a matter I must speak to you of.”
“Speak.”
“There is a case being built against me.”
“I am no lawyer.”
“That is not what I mean. Look at the name here.” He dropped the folder on her desk. “The attorney’s name.”
Flipping it open, she skimmed over the first page to see what had him so rattled. Clemensia Dovecote. “And?” A medical malpractice case was not always so straightforward. Cases could be dismissed. Dropped. One did not survive so long as a doctor without having gone to court once or twice.
“You do not think she is holding a grudge? I would not come here otherwise; she plans to see me ruined.”
She believed it, but this had naught to do with her. “Even if she is, what would you have me do?” She flipped through the other pages, skimming their contents.
“Well, you could speak with him— the president. Everyone knows those two are close.”
Volumnia almost laughs — correction, she does laugh at her colleague's words.
Did he think her an idiot?
How pathetic Wayne was. To approach Coriolanus regarding the woman was akin to rubbing salt on an open wound.
She had the Peacekeepers escort him out.
Him being served had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the fact that he was sloppy in his work, lying through his teeth to patients and staff alike. Lies had a way of festering and it had only been a matter of time till his shaky hands had caused an accident.
Volumnia saw no reason to help the man instead of letting the rot that he was be excised.
For that reason, when Wayne’s case went to trial, she sat in attendance.
Not in his support. Never for that. In fact, she felt nothing when the judge decreed that Wayne’s license to practice was revoked.
But rather, she had wanted to hear what the other side’s attorney would say. Volumnia would have praised where it was due — she did not let emotion rule her. But it is difficult to say which of her grandparents the young woman took after most. The restraint is most definitely Cleopatra, but the persuasiveness must be Hector’s.
How intriguing.
Bound by mortal constraints, there was no time to start another trial if this trial of hers failed.
And while she had promised herself no more external interference, Volumnia could not help but lament how history tended to repeat itself.
Yet she hoped the third time would be the charm given how much time and effort she had poured into shaping Coriolanus.
One would think that being on the vast grounds of somewhere like the presidential estate would mean that she could have a moment to herself.
But no, the gardens just had to be occupied at this time.
Then again, she supposed that there was no better moment than now to check up on the participants of this trial. For that reason she refrained from lighting her cigarette as she settled just far enough for plausible deniability should they realize they weren’t alone.
“No,” told Clemensia, sitting on the edge of the bridge’s barrier. “I like where I am.” She made a fluttering motion with her hands. “I get to pick my cases right now. Under your administration, there would be far too much red tape.”
A huff came in response from the President, who opted to lean on the barrier across from the woman.
“They’d speculate, you know. Having a pretty face suddenly being appointed to office like that.”
“Vain,” the man calls her in a tone that is more fond than irritable.
“Yes, and?”
This time, laughter escaped Coriolanus as he shook his head in amusement. “You’re impossible.”
She leaned back. “It is one of my more charming qualities, or so I’ve heard.”
A rather precarious decision, thought Volumnia, for if the young woman tilted any more backwards, she’d fall into the pond below.
Perhaps Coriolanus had thought the same as he moved to stand on the same side of her. “You are drunk, Clemmie. Come down before you fall.”
Innocuous as these words are, Clemensia’s tone cooled. “Don’t call me that. You’ve no right to it.” She pushed away the man’s arm from her knee.
Undeterred, his hand returned and Volumnia took it as a sign to depart, for she had little desire to watch the sickening push-and-pull dynamic between those two anymore. She had seen enough of it in previous trials. “Because I don’t want you to fall?”
“No, because you keep her around.”
The venom in that singular word gives Volumnia pause.
Oh?
She peered just to see the way the man had turned his face away. The silence suggested this was not the first time this had come up in conversation.
“What excuse shall you offer this time? Now that you stand comfortably as head of state, what will you tell me now?”
At that, he turns to face her once more. “It is not like that,” began Coriolanus. “I am trying to keep—”
“If you are trying to keep me— us safe, you would rid her of her power. But no, you continue dancing along to her tune. It’s the games today. But what about tomorrow? What if she asks for something else?”
“Clemensia.”
“Will you send me—” Her voice cracks. “—to the labs when she asks for it?” A tearful sniff follows, and she sees the young woman turn her face away from him.
“Clemensia,” repeats the man as he shifts so he is in the woman’s line of sight. “You’ve had too much to drink if you are asking me that. I would not allow it, you know that.” From his pocket, he pulled out a square of fabric, offering it up to her.
She did not take it, wiping instead at her tears with the back of her hands. “I am sober enough to know you would rather her alive,” she said with a solemnness that did not fit her inebriated state if Coriolanus was to be believed. Had she been feigning it?
Ignoring her refusal, he reached to dab at her tears.
The gesture was rather sickening.
And Volumnia did not linger after that.
To say that it was the first time someone wanted her ousted would be a lie.
The probability of it happening was not zero, but given the fair share that she had survived over the years, the probability was low.
As such, she did not think a pair of tearful eyes would do a thing, even if they belonged to a Dovecote.
So it is no surprise when nothing comes out of it.
The new year comes and goes without much fanfare in her laboratory.
No new development on her trial either, for one Miss Dovecote had kept her distance from Coriolanus ever since that night.
By nature, February is a slow month for many.
Her laboratory is the same, making it out of the ordinary when the President comes down to pay a visit, one slow afternoon, to observe progress on her beloved mutts that will make their debut come July.
Coriolanus brings with him two coffees — a sip is enough to confirm that hers is made precisely to her taste, with just the right amount of sugar and creamer added, enough that it would have made someone like Maximinius scowl. How that man had ever enjoyed it black she would never understand.
She allows Coriolanus the illusion of being in charge as he dismisses her interns from the room and asks after the games, wanting more details, deadlines met, the lot.
Volumnia knew how men like him worked.
“It is Clemmie’s birthday tomorrow,” remarks Coriolanus out of the blue.
From her desk, she glanced up from her files, a dull ache in her temples. The lighting in here bothered her today more than usual. But never mind that; what did the woman’s birthday have to do with her? Unless he was asking her to have his peer dealt with — it was cold, more than Max would have done no matter how District sympathetic Hector was.
“She is rather difficult to shop for.”
She was too old for this.
The man continued, ignoring her silent dread. “Though I suppose she is fond of the museum and its stories.” A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Only by understanding the past will we not be doomed to repeat the same mistakes, or so I’m told.”
Nausea did not begin to describe what she felt. Was she doomed to be subject to such once more?
“Although I do not share the same fondness for museums as she does, she has a way of making the most mundane art pieces sound exhilarating.” A pause before his tone turned almost sheepish. “Forgive me, I have gone off topic.”
At least he was self-aware.
“But she is dear to me.”
A knock interrupts their talk; in arrives a Peacekeeper with a silver dome and tray — ornate in the way that only patricians would own.
Set in front of her, the dome is lifted to reveal an empty tray.
Just what was this boy up to?
She stood, just to order the officer to take this out of her presence, but as she stood, the world tilted on its axis and her hand landed on the desk’s surface so she could steady herself.
Lightheadedness. Nausea. Headache. Separate, they could be nothing. But this was not the case, and the onset had started about half an hour since she’d drunk the coffee.
Had he —
“So I do hope she’ll appreciate the gesture since without her stories, I would not have settled on this. Tell me, doctor, are you familiar with the story of Salome?”
Were the nausea not rising, she’d have replied that she was all too familiar. In fact, it’d been Maximinius that had told her the story of the girl whose dance pleased a king enough to grant her a boon. Back then Maximinius had acted all high and mighty of his knowledge, as if it made him a cut above them all.
The urge to laugh was great, for decades later, it was his successor telling her of it.
Anger does not describe what she feels. Nor does resignation or fear.
Amusement, perhaps.
Disappointment.
Silly, foolish boy.
This trial has been all too successful — a mirthless laugh escapes as she stands, however unsteadily, and finds herself restrained. In her pursuit of a proper successor to Maximinus, she has crafted the exact type of fool.
All this for a Dovecote?
One day, he too would see how far his control got him. Perhaps not today, but sooner or later, he’d see.
She has seen this play out before.
The issue with men like Max and young Coriolanus was that they believed they could control everything, and in doing so, the more they tried, the more things slipped out from under their grasp. Especially if one was a Dovecote.
Like Hector.
Just as Clemensia would.
There was but one thought as the blade fell — another failed trial.
Pity.