IMPORTANT NOTES ABOUT A POTENTIALLY DISCOMFITTING SCENE:
When you get to that potentially unnerving scene, please keep in mind that it was all my idea and my co-author CoffeeRanger is not to blame for it at all. In fact, she did her very best to make that scene as mild as possible. I read it a hundred times over prior to publishing, and I believe it's as subtle as it can possibly be. Still, we think it wise to give you guys a heads up—just in case that sort of thing triggers you. I assure you that this would be the first and final time I would ever hint at something of that nature, and I never intend to go beyond what you will read/intend to skim over in just a few moments. Both CoffeeRanger and I commit to write in a way that is pleasing to Him who has given us the gift of words, and we promise, to the best of our abilities, not to go against this goal.
As always, I would like to thank CoffeeRanger for her invaluable insights, kindness, and friendship. Honestly, I don't think I would still be writing this story if it wasn't for her. The insecurities haven't gone away completely, but her continued passion for this story and the ideas she comes up with every time we exchange personal messages renew my strength and vigor every single time. So, my sweet sister-in-Christ, although we work equally hard for every single chapter, I dedicate the parts that I write both to you and to Him. *HUGS*
Thank you ever so much to everyone who have read/reviewed/followed/added King and Lionheart to their favorites! And welcome aboard, All4Aslan and Cloudoffeathers! I absolutely adore the usernames of both of you! All4Aslan, thank you for giving this a chance, even though The Hunger Games is not your cup of tea. Your prediction about what Peter told Edmund in the previous chapter made me smile!
Eternally thankful to the incomparably talented JubileeKnight, CooperGirlHH, and Daughter of Eve3 as well. I may have told you this before in one of my reviews for your stories, but I still think that along with CoffeeRanger, you guys are ushering the new Golden Age of Narnia fanfics! I still think it's absolutely nuts that you guys read my work at all!
Speaking of which—thanks for showing interest in Snow White and Black Heart. I promise I've already started writing the continuation—in my head, at least.
I re-read the previous chapters of this story a few days back. The inconsistency of my tenses is admittedly HORRENDOUS and I would like to apologize for that and all the grammatical blunders I have committed. CoffeeRanger is a wonderful beta/editor/co-author, but she can only do so much, and if you were to check out her stories, you would notice that her grammar and tenses are always strong and consistent, so all the mistakes you will see are mine. I know it's not an excuse but I'm not a native English speaker. I'm from the beautiful Pearl of the Orient Sea (aka Philippines) and even my Filipino is far from perfect.
Finally, because this seems to be one of the major reasons why some readers initially refuse to give this story a chance, I'm going to have to say it here once, and then in the ending notes a second time: ABSOLUTELY NO PAIRINGS/SHIPS/SLASH AMONG PETER, SUSAN, EDMUND, LUCY, AND CASPIAN. My feelings regarding the whole Jon Snow/Danaerys Targaryen mess reminded me of how strongly I digress the SUSPIAN ship (I would like to apologize if there is anyone here who likes Caspian and Susan together, but this is how I feel).
I ship one ship and ONE ship only: Edmund Pevensie/Electric Torch.
All right. On with the story. I apologize for the ridiculously long rant. Please enjoy what CoffeeRanger and I have worked really hard on for the past few weeks, and if you please, let us know via reviews/personal messages what you think. We treasure every single response from you guys.
-oOo-
CHAPTER SEVEN: THE OLDER DAUGHTER OF EVE
There is something about the way the guard looks at me that I don't like. I can't quite place my finger on it. Nothing sets him apart from any of the other guards I have seen—same uniform, same scowl, same cold demeanor. The only thing I can think of is that it is something in his cold, pale grey eyes— something hidden deep waiting to be released. Lucy would probably be able to tell me in a heartbeat. Somehow, she has always been able to discern the intention of those we meet.
The guard places his hand on my elbow as we move through the halls. It takes everything within me not to edge away from him. It would not be polite — he has not done anything after all. On top of that, he is a Peacekeeper.
As we move into a more deserted portion of the Justice Building, I can't help the chill that travels down my back. There's a warm, soothing voice trying to break its way into my consciousness. I concentrate, trying to figure out where it is coming from and what it is saying. However, the guard starts talking just then, and his annoying blither soon drowns out the sound, so much I cannot understand whatever it is the voice is trying to say. I try to politely dislodge his grasp, but it's to no avail. Over our last few steps he has gotten closer and closer.
"This is going to be easy for you, lassie." he says, his eyes raking my features from head to toe in a manner that makes my skin crawl with disgust. "Remember that pretty Odair kid from District 4? Youngest victor ever. Got them sponsors showering him with parachutes by batting his eyelashes and flexing them brawny arms at the cameras. The audience ate it up — couldn't get enough of him."
I pretend not to hear — even though he is speaking so loudly that if anyone was walking along the corridor, they would be able to hear our one-sided conversation. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. It shouldn't be much farther to the room; it can't be. My head starts to ache from holding my breath. The chatty bloke's mouth smells to high heavens — like a dead sewer rat baking under the summer sun.
"You're a lovely thing."
I see him nod to himself out of the corner of my vision. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Why must that always be everyone's comment when they first meet me? I am much more than how I look. Besides, as much as I fancy the notion of surviving the Games by winning the sponsors' favor instead of killing my way to the Finale, I still cannot stomach the thought of objectifying myself—of baring some skin or shooting alluring looks to the cameras for a slice of bread or a box of matches.
Leanna Kretzmer did it—albeit not as gratuitously as Finnick had done in his time—and she almost won, too. If it wasn't for her getting caught praying to Aslan later in the Games, she wouldn't have been "accidentally" wiped out by the artificial lava that suddenly flooded the Arena out of nowhere.
A sudden ache seizes my heart as a vision of Caspian Telmar, who had been the reigning tribute when Kretzmer represented District 12, fills my head.
I was only four years old when Caspian first assumed the role of mentor to incoming tributes, but a clip of him sobbing and thrashing as he witnessed Kretzmer's gruesome death has been replayed on television for as long as I can remember. The Capitol calls it one of the "emotional highlights" of Games past, but my family and I firmly believe that it is their way of reminding us of what becomes of tributes—of anyone—who dare wear their faith in their sleeves.
The aching turns to full-blown panic as I realize how steadfast Mum and Lucy can be in their faith. Without me, there will be no one left to remind them fiercely of the perils they are inviting upon themselves.
"You can win this thing and feed this pathetic district for a year," the guard continues, effectively dispelling thoughts of Caspian, his deceased lady love (if the enduring rumors are to be believed), and my headstrong mother and sister. "Why don't you practice, eh? Show me how to blink those pretty doll eyes of yours."
"No." I say as firmly as I can without growling. Why is it taking so long to reach the meeting room? The Justice Building is not that big. We should have been there by now. The ill feeling I have in my stomach increases tenfold, and I inch away from the man.
I am stopped as his grip on my elbow tightens and he pulls me back to my original place at his side. "I'm an officer, you know. I can bloody well make you do anything I please!"
"And if I don't?" I turn to him, my chin raised in utter defiance. "You'll hurt me? I'm a tribute, Officer." I spit out his undeserved title like a vile substance I cannot bear to keep on my tongue.
"You've got some gall," he snarls. The hallway we have been walking down splits, and he steers me down the dark, narrow corridor that leads to a desolate corner void of any door or window.
My entire being stiffens at the sight. My heart hammers against my ribcage with bruising force and I start having trouble breathing. He can't. He wouldn't. I'm supposed to be as safe and secure as the president until the Games. A single scratch on me means one hundred marks on his back.
This isn't where we are supposed to be. Take to me to my family," I say; the steadiness of my voice belies the weakness of my knees.
A sinister smirk pulls at the corners of his lips. My heart stops at the sight. I know now that he does not care about the rules. I am in more danger here than I have ever been in the village.
I open my mouth to scream, to draw attention to us, to call for aid, but the attempt dies as he drives his fist into my stomach. The pain is so strong I almost lose consciousness. Only the debilitating fear of what will happen if I do keeps me awake. I stumble back, my arms covering my stomach in a weak attempt to protect it against future blows.
"Please," I implore weakly. All my bravery and defiance dissipates as the back of my legs meet the cold wall. "Please, let me go."
"You're prettier when you're acting pathetic like this." He reaches for my hair, running his hand through it. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears slipping down my cheeks.
Aslan! Aslan, please!
"What are you doing?!" The voice that fills the small space is a roar.
My eyes fly open in time to see the guard go flying back, his hands slipping from my hair. My defender — a dark, long-haired, utterly intimidating middle-aged man — throws the guard over his shoulder as if he were an empty flour sack. A young, fair-haired boy with a familiar face slips around them to place strong yet gentle hands on my shoulders. His calming voice washes over me as he pulls me close.
Peter Leonidas. My brain supplies the name that matches the face. Concern shines in his red-rimmed eyes. It is the same concern and fear I had seen back at the Reaping. The same concern and fear I had seen directed at Edmund.
I can't help it. My nerves are still frazzled by what had just happened. I bury my face into his broad shoulder and throw my arms around his waist. The prim and proper part of me seethes at the back of my mind. However, I could care less what Peter might make of my complete lack of manners at the moment. My tears drench his shirt as I feel his arms come up to hug me.
"I - I'm sorry." I hiccup into his shirt. I'm taking in big gulps of air, but I still can't settle my breathing. My knees are weak, and I fear that if it wasn't for Peter's supporting arms, I would be a crumpled mess on the floor.
"Hush. It's all right." Peter begins to rub my back. "You're all right. Officer Oreius will make him pay." I feel him shift to look at the two men behind us and I can't help but look up as well.
My assailant is backed against the wall by the other man — Oreius if I had heard correctly, his face white as snow and his eyes huge as saucers. Oreius has him pinned by the shoulders, his hands squeezing so tight his deep brown knuckles are losing color.
I shudder as I imagine what could have happened if they hadn't come. Peter pulls me closer. "You're all right. Shhh. We got here. Nothing's going to happen." I start to feel myself relax. Peter's shirt feels like it's made of old, scratchy material, and he seems to have lost some weight after suffering from a prolonged illness last fall. But because of who he is and how he treats the people around him, I feel as though I was in the arms of a king in full armor.
His other hand reaches up to pat the back of my head, pressing my face even further into his chest, but there is nothing suffocating at all about the way he is holding me. In fact, it reminds me of my mother's hugs — warm and comforting, promising protection from all the evil in the world. It makes me feel tough, even though I am anything but.
"Peter," Oreius interrupts. "I'm going to take this — this scum to the square. I'll see him suitably paid, make no mistake. Would you please escort Susan to her room? It's right down the main hallway the way we were going. It's the second door on the left as soon as you exit this corridor. Edmund's in the first room to the right."
"Yes, Sir." Peter nods.
I sniffle and pull away from Peter as Oreius hauls the other guard back the way we had come by his uniform collar.
Peter turns to look at me. "Are you all right?"
I swallow. "I will be. Thank you — for your help. I—" Another shudder runs through my body, "I don't want to think about what would have happened if you had not come."
"Then don't think about it." Peter insists. "You're safe now."
He turns us so we are facing back out towards the main hallway and we begin walking. He keeps one hand on my arm, reminding me that I am not alone.
Peter's mother joins us when we reach the main hallway. She is holding two large packages in her hands, but she still immediately pulls me into her arms, smoothing my hair from my face. "You poor dear. Are you all right?"
I nod. "Yes, Ma'am. Thanks to Peter and the other officer. Nothing happened."
She visibly relaxes, "Praise Aslan," she murmurs under her breath. As if on cue, Peter and I swivel our gazes back and forth, checking for signs that someone might have heard his mum say the forbidden name. We let go of our breaths at exactly the same time. Despite myself, I entertain something that Lucy used to tell me, "Susan, I feel as if we know—or at least ought to know—Peter and Edmund Leonidas."
"We have to go, Mum," Peter says. He looks apologetically at me. His eyes reveal the conflict he is having between needing to see his brother while they still have the chance, and ensuring that I am truly all right.
"I'll be all right, Peter, Mrs. Leonidas," I say, pulling myself together. I will not be the cause of them missing out on their time with Edmund. "Edmund is waiting for you. My family will be here soon."
"Are you sure?" Mrs. Leonidas asks.
I nod. "Yes, Ma'am."
"All right." Her lips are pursed, but she relinquishes her grip on me. "We'll see you to your room first."
Peter once again takes his place at my side as we continue down the hall. We all stop at the door Oreius mentioned.
"Thank you very much, Peter, for your help," I say, putting my hand on the handle. "I promise I will look out for Edmund as best as I can."
Peter nods. "Thank you, Susan. Look out for yourself as well."
"I promise." Not that the promise is worth much. I might not last long in the Arena, but I am going to fight really hard for the chance to see my family again.
Mrs. Leonidas gives me one final hug, then they walk back down the hall and open the door that leads to where Edmund waits.
I take a deep breath and push open the door to my own room. I snort when I see the contents. One extremely worn wooden table and three plastic chairs. That's it.
I sit at the tables and try to still my suddenly shaking hands. I have to be strong when Mum and Lucy arrive. They will never know what just happened. They have enough to focus on without the knowledge of my very close brush with… with one of the worst things that can happen to any person. One last time, I will make the most of the opportunity to be strong for them, to protect and provide for them.
But my heart betrays me as soon as I settle on one of the chairs. I clamp two hands fiercely against my mouth to keep the wounded cry from escaping my chest. Sixty seconds, Susan. You have exactly sixty seconds to nurse this onslaught of weakness.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pray.
Aslan, I know I haven't been the most faithful to you. I know I haven't prayed to you… until today, and I thank you for sending Peter and Officer Orieus to my aid. But Aslan, why did you allow it? Why must I be burdened by this experience just before the Games? Why must Lucy get picked? Why must I journey to my death alone? Oh, I know there is that small chance that I might make it out of this alive. But it wouldn't matter, would it, Aslan? It wouldn't be Susan Pevensie who would come home to Mum and Lucy when all of this is over. Not anymore. Who I am now would surely die in that Arena with all the other human beings I would be forced to kill. Why Aslan? Why have you forsaken me?
An image of a great lion trudging wearily in a dark forest, accompanied by two girls, breaks through my steadily darkening thoughts. I almost give in to the desire to weep, because there's something so infinitely sad about this; something equally perplexing and meaningful, but I stop short at the sound of the turning doorknob.
The door swings open and there, with their ghostly-white faces that look incongruous to the fiery determination in their eyes, I find the answers to almost all of my questions.
-oOo-
Thank you so much for reading! Now, I know it's pretty obvious that Chapter Eight will be called "THE YOUNGER DAUGHTER OF EVE," but here's some food for thought: Chapter Nine will be called "TURKISH DELIGHT." Any thoughts on how the iconic Turkish Delight will come into play? Please let us know in your reviews or PMs if you have ideas! ^_^
*** CoffeeRanger and JustValiant1717 do not own The Chronicles of Narnia or The Hunger Games. All characters, creatures, situations, and ideas that do not appear in the books or films, however, belong to us. ***
*** NO PAIRINGS/SHIPS/SLASH among Peter, Susan, Edmund, Lucy, and Caspian ***
*** Any irksome deviation from the Narnia or Hunger Games canon is unintentional and stems from my inability to re-read the books at the moment ***
*** For I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God's love.No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. – Romans 8:38-39 ***
