The Fourth Annual Writer Games: Canon

The Assassin | Moira Holiday

This world is new and Moira isn't quite sure if she loves or hates it yet.

It is a world of comfort and health, of luxury and attention, of conspiracy and chaos masked as order, and she's wrapped up in the midst of it, which is why, in moments like these, she prefers to wrap herself in the midst of wool knitting, locked inside the house, and pulled along by fatigue. At the very least, when she's half-asleep, she doesn't have to think very much about the world and where she stands in the middle of it.

Right now, all she has to worry about is how to balance a mug of hot cocoa upon her body, all draped across the couch, head resting on the arm of the chair and legs crossed along the length of the cushions. It's cold outside, but even though they have heat, Moira hardly has it up, preferring to nuzzle down into that gentle temperature, that gentle place. It's a gentle place she needs to be right now. The buzz of her own victory tour recaps from a month ago threatens to spill out of the television and onto the floor, pooling around her socks, so she keeps them up; and, if she does fall off, at least she will drown swaddled in the warmth of a soft blanket. It's a step-up from thinking of and planning out a more brutal, solid death. Maybe.

She hasn't really thought about it in a while. It feels better that way.

Still, even though she wants to drown out the harshness of the winter outside and the television and the world, she can't help but drowsily glance back over to the screen, straining to hear the low volume. She looks so different even a month before now. Hair a centimeter longer. Softer. Fat moved to different places. It's all on her hips now; she feels it while running a hand along the softened skin under the blanket. And on her chest, some. Just some. Of course, that old build is still there, bones still jut where she doesn't want them to, nothing's picture-perfect. And there's a good chance that she's just overthinking it, that there's no real change from a month ago or seven months ago when she left the arena. But she feels it. Feels the change. So it must be there. Not just physical. Physical changes are slight, small improvements.

Moira just tells herself that things have changed and leaves it at that, taking another steaming sip of cocoa that burns her upper lip to distract from her own droning voice on-screen. She's comfortable. No need to ruin it.

The dull quiet is broken regardless by the heavy jam of a key in the front door. Moira's attentions shift lazily towards the twisting knob, and then the intruder shoves the door open entirely, showing himself not to be some petty thief, but her brother.

Cade glances around the moment he's past the threshold in search of Moira, and when his sights fall upon her, he grins widely. "Hi, Moira. You look comfy." He bends down to untie his shoes, to yank them off. "Where's mom at?" he asks, straining his voice before the satisfactory and freeing pop of shoe from foot.

She appreciates him, but her voice is too tired to show it. "She's out at the market. Getting veggies for dinner, the soup thing."

Cade nods as his socks shuffle across the floorboards. Moira watches. He drops a bag down by the side of the couch, and then shrugs off a winter coat noisily. "I was thinking of inviting Elijah over for that, for dinner. Elijah Bloom. You met him a couple times, I think, when I brought him over." Then he plops down on the couch beside her, and she's forced to pull her legs back to make room.

Well. Guess I'm up now. She shifts into a firmer sitting position and grips the mug more solidly, and though she wants to respond to Cade, she doesn't have any words in her mouth to use. It's different, the two of them talking casually like this. They never really had a sibling bond where they talked about things before the arena. Sure, they had secrets, but they were unspoken, like Cade's night ventures and Moira's own decision to wait up for his return. Just in case. But now Cade gets to walk into their little house in the Victor's Village, gets to smile and grin instead of sighing wearily, gets to ask questions and receive answers. Moira can, too. She just chooses not to. Maybe she just needs to get used to it.