Notes:
So… it took us even longer than last time to update. I sincerely apologize. Real life's been hard and hectic, to say the least. I hope you guys haven't given up on us, though, as we will never give up on this story.
As always, thank you very much for all the follows, favourites, and reviews. Your words inspire me and my co-author, the lovely CoffeeRanger, in ways even writers like ourselves cannot express in words.
All right. You've waited long enough. I won't keep you guys with my incessant babbling anymore. I hope you enjoy Chapter Nine! God bless you all!
-oOo-
CHAPTER NINE: TURKISH DELIGHT
Despite my ardent resolve to seem nonplussed about anything that the Capitol has to offer, my breath catches in my chest as I take in the inside of the train. Everything – from the heady scent of rose and lavender oil in the air, to the silver, gold, diamond and ivory accoutrements, to the plush, red velvet cushions – sparkles and shines as if brand new. Knowing the Capital, it probably is.
It is hard to keep the disgust from my face, despite my amazement. Everywhere I look, I see yet another display of wealth and opulence. I feel horribly out of place. My dress is three inches too short, and there are patches in spots where the fabric wore thin. My mind flashes back to my home, to the families left in near abject poverty, and I swallow hard. Even the smallest trinket from this room alone would be enough to feed a family for months, and the Capitol has placed it all at the disposal of two people who might not even make it out of their stupid Games alive.
I glance over at Edmund. (1) His face is still frighteningly pale, but if it wasn't for that, his entire expression would read complete indifference. Save for the minor tremors wracking his skinny frame (which also scares me since it is quite warm within the car), he may as well pass for a marble statue.
Tyla Manx slips into the room from behind Edmund and I.
"Now, my pets, isn't this just lovely? Come, sit." She directs Edmund and me to places on the velvet couch. I make sure that none of the awe I am truly feeling inside registers in my expression as I sink into its depths. Furtively, I run my hands along the fabric. I have never felt anything so soft in my life.
"Behold, the Capitol Express!" Tyla exclaims, waving her arms with dramatic flourish before plopping down into a chair across from us. "What do you think, my dearies? Impressed?"
Edmund sighs heavily in response and begins picking at the ivory lace placemat spread on a mahogany table at his side. His eyes are devoid of any emotion, staring at nothing.
Tyla's eyes widen and her mouth pinches tight. Without warning, her perfectly manicured hand slaps down on top of Edmund's – hard. I wince in sympathy, somehow knowing in my heart that sweet Mrs. Leonidas is not the kind to hit her children. Edmund, on the other hand, seems unfazed by her actions. He simply drops his hands back down and stares at the fancy ashtray on the table as if it can help him disappear.
"Where are your manners, boy?" the hostess admonishes, flattening the spot on the placemat that Edmund has touched with her fingers. With a world-weary sigh, she looks down on him. "District 12 tribute though you are, it looks like we have a lot of work to do with you if you're going to be any hint of a success at the Capitol."
Her eyes rake over Edmund's skinny frame. Her gaze is sharp, and I'm reminded of my 5th grade teacher. She always managed to make us feel like she was tearing us apart just with her gaze. Edmund, who still has not looked up from his hands, seems to shrink into himself.
"Let the boy be, Tyla," Caspian says as he takes a seat next to Edmund. His voice is much different from the tones I have heard in the past. Deeper, darker, in a way. "I will give you dozens of that bloody cloth if you like."
Tyla rolls her eyes at the sole District 12 victor. "Acting like an uncivilized monkey will not get them anywhere, Caspian. You know that. If they are to have any hope of survival for any amount of time, we need to start now. Need I remind you of Dom and Aggie?"
Caspian and I gasp in unison. Caspian's gaze dims, while mine flits back to Edmund. He clenches and unclenches his fists, but otherwise keeps his face blank.
Dom Henkel and Aggie Shephard were last year's District 12 tributes. Save for the constantly famished expressions they wore, and their penchant for stuffing biscuits inside their pockets when they thought there were no cameras around, the skinny, awfully shy pair weren't remarkable to the viewers outside of our district (if their sparse screen time and pre-game interviews are anything to go by). I'm surprised Tyla remembers them at all.
The way she continues to look at Edmund as if he's a stinking pile of rubbish sitting across from her sparks an even more disgusting thought in me. Tyla remembers poor, unrefined Henkel and Shephard because their manners, or lack thereof, are burrowed deeply — vividly — in her judgmental brain. She doesn't remember them because they were people; she remembers them because they were failures in her eyes. From the looks of it, there is nothing more in the world that she hates with such passion. And that hatred has passed on to Edmund, for all she sees is another to-be failure in his actions.
My heart constricts with fury. I may not have known Henkel and Shephard very well, but I do know that both were 18-year-olds who worked tirelessly in the mines until the 69th Reaping ceremony. Both had younger brothers and sisters. Both had parents who called out their names with soul-crushing torment as they were dragged, pale and shaking, to the stage. They were someone else's beloved son or daughter, idolized older brother or sister, someone's lover. Someone so much more than their weaknesses and flaws – more than what the Capital gave them credit for.
And Edmund I do know — or know of. Everyone loves him, much as they love Lucy and the rest of the "young ones" as they are labelled by us older crowd. His manners are impeccable; he is always polite to those throughout the District — and that fact is not just a testament to Mrs. Leonidas's training. I have always felt that there was a bit something more to Edmund Leonidas, something that is being hidden at the moment.
That a woman such as Tyla Manx, who wears flakes of real gold on her eyelids and diamonds in her earlobes, who gets food handed to her on silver platters while she lays languid on her bed, who probably hasn't experienced pain beyond cutting her fingertip on crisp Capitol banknotes, dares to reduce the unfortunate children of our district into scums of society –- and automatically categorizes Edmund Leonidas as such merely because he scratched at a bloody placemat –- breaks a dam of emotions within me. When I speak, I don't recognise my voice. Even my mother and sister, who are the word "valiant" in the flesh, would have balked at the timbre of authority that resonates from my throat and settles like an echo of power in my aching chest.
"You would do well to remember that, as tributes, you work for Edmund and me." I straighten my back and lift my chin, doing my best to channel the confidence I have to present when I go to sell meat at the Market.
"If I hear one more disrespectful word spoken about the fallen children of our district, or see another disgusted glance directed towards my fellow tribute, I will make sure everyone who owns a TV set hears about the verbal and mental abuse you are subjecting us to."
Tyla reels back, her breath catching in her throat, before letting out a near-hysterical giggle. She leans forward once more and positions her arms in an elegant pose—presumably to feign confidence—but her complexion, which was eerily chalk-white before, pales to the point that Edmund appears almost tan in contrast. A victorious smile teases the corner of my lips even as she forms her rebuttal.
"You think my people would take your word over mine, little queen?" she spits, quirking a bleached brow. "You think my people would choose two tributes over one of their own? The word of two urchins to a respected and powerful member of society?"
I lean forward as well, resting my own hand on one of the precious placemats that lies on the table to my left, and smile in a way that feels completely foreign and yet right on my face. "I will make sure they will choose us. Over you. Over everyone else if need be."
For a moment, Tyla looks as if she's about to say something more threatening, but just then a ray of sunlight filters through the tree line and into the Capitol Express's crystal-clear windows. It lays around me, casting me in a strong, golden glow. My eyes ache to close from the intensity, but something, someone, keeps them open. I stare bluntly at the first true enemy I have ever made in my life.
And then, for the next few seconds, something bizarre takes place. The train and the people around me disappear, and I am standing in a courtroom awash in golden light – the very same courtroom I saw Lucy regally walking on at the Reaping ceremony.
"To the Radiant Southern Sun, I give you, Queen Susan, the Gentle."
A chill sweeps down my spine at the enigmatic timbre of the voice calling out. It is not a chill of dread though. It is one of longing and a sense that I should recognize the voice, but for some reason, do not. The strong, majestic voice and the vision of me being crowned are gone as quickly as they came, however.
When I perceive the Capitol Express once more, Tyla is nowhere in sight, but Caspian and Edmund are looking at me with the most peculiar expressions.
Written all over Caspian's kind, handsome face is pure awe. Gratitude. Respect. All at once, the confidence that had flooded me leaves. I duck my head, my cheeks hot. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes shine. I nod and smile at him, wordlessly communicating the honor I feel about having defended his deceased proteges from the hateful Capitol woman.
Edmund's expression, on the other hand, is everything but straightforward. Awe. Dismay. Gratitude. Anger. Respect. Disgust. They all flicker in and out of his face like the light of a dying lamp.
I am saved from having to question the impossible boy by Caspian suggesting that we drink some tea to prepare our stomachs for the massive feast awaiting us.
-oOo-
To say that our first meal courtesy of the Capitol is massive is, well, a massive understatement. Caspian leads us into another car of the train. This one contains a large, rectangular marble table, primly set for a meal with 4 places grouped around one end. The richness of the furnishing continues into this car as well, and I know that no matter where I am to go on this train, lavishness will follow me.
We sit down and, less than a minute after Caspian presses a button somewhere on the side of our table, a young maid wearing a dull grey uniform and an expression akin to the hue of her clothing comes scurrying in. She places a giant pot brimming with soup in front of our faces. My cheeks colour from the steam rising from the pot, and from the effort of clamping down on the eagerness welling within me. It is Edmund, however, who blushes deep red when the first sound he makes since getting on the Capitol Express comes from the terrible growling of his stomach.
Mercifully, Caspian pretends not to hear as the maid ladles the soup into each of our porcelain bowls. A basket of aromatic bread comes next, peppered with herbs and spices I don't recognize (despite my vast knowledge of plants, thanks to years of helping my apothecary mum). Caspian takes it upon himself to load our plates with the mouthwatering loaves.
"They're just appetizers, but help yourself to as much as you want. The tea we just had should help you digest the food easier. Try not to overdo it, though, allow your stomachs time to get used to the food." our mentor says, looking eager, but probably not for the same reason we are.
Having won the Hunger Games over a decade ago, Caspian Telmar is no stranger to luxurious meals – or just plain luxury. I suppose seeing malnourished children eat such glorious fare for the first time in their lives is one of the simple pleasures he gets out of being a mentor. I smile to myself, marveling at the fact that, even though the Capitol took the young man's innocence and his supposed lady love, Leanna Kretzmer, somehow, they did not so much as touch his humanity and compassion.
Though there is no Tyla to complain about our lack of etiquette, I pick up my spoon with as much grace as I can muster, wrestling with the urge to lift the bowl off the table and sip directly from it. I stir the soup, noting with delight that it is thick – the consistency reminiscent of stew. Huge chunks of what looks like chicken meat, carrots, asparagus and corn kernels surface as I move the spoon in a circular pattern. All the while the unidentifiable herbs intensify the wonderful aroma. This "appetizer" is a complete meal in itself.
Something warm and wet slides down my cheek – the one thankfully facing away from my companions – as I take in the foreign meal in front of my face.
Dear Aslan, I would give anything, probably my very life, to be able to share this meal with Lucy. With my mum; to have had the funds these past few years to be able to provide something as rich and filling for them during the winter.
Someone sniffs, and I don't have to look up from my stirring to know that my fellow tribute is sharing my inner turmoil.
Lucy and Peter – their faces as they stood side by side, Peter's arm wrapped like a protective cloak around my sister's shoulder (2), pierce through my ruminations. I find it hard to swallow the first spoonful around the lump in my throat. However, as the food settles into my stomach, hunger takes over, and it isn't long until the bowl is scraped clean.
Caspian smiles as Edmund and I put down our spoons almost at the same time.
"Did you enjoy it?" he asks.
"Yes," I answer.
"It was delicious," Edmund states quietly. A little colour has seeped back into his cheeks now that he has eaten something, but he is still shaking slightly, and sweat beads his forehead.
This time, when the maid returns, I do not hesitate before eating.
We feast on so many dishes. Mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, herbed roast turkey, slabs of tender beef drenched in flavourful sauce, prawns so huge they looked frightening, and so many others I don't recognise.
Edmund Leonidas looks like a completely different person as the time goes on. It's amazing what a full meal can do to a person who understands hunger in ways even I cannot fathom.
His cheeks are now bright pink, his eyes shining like a pair of amber stones in the high noon sun. He is also opening a tiny bit more to Caspian, trading small remarks with him about life in the District every now and then. He refuses to answer any questions about his family, and grows more distant at the memory of them. However, when Caspian talks about how he had sent bits and pieces of crustacean shell flying all over the hostess' face at his very first Capitol Express meal, his body folds nearly in half with laughter.
My second cup of tea sits untouched in front of me as I take in this spectacle. My thoughts drift back to Lucy, and how this merry, vibrant Edmund reminds me so strongly of her. And Peter, oh! He would love to see his brother this way! He looks so alive, so different from the pale, shivering boy who said nothing and seemed as though he felt nothing, too, when we first boarded.
"A penny for your thoughts, Susan?"
I am broken out of my reverie by Caspian's gentle tones. I glance his way to see him staring at me. His brow is puckered.
"I was simply thinking about my family," I answer slowly. "Lucy would love this." I swallow hard. "Tales of princesses and courts have always been her favorite. She loves — loved — it when I describe the castles."
I lower my head, twisting my fingers together and willing the tears not to fall. Will I ever see Lucy again?
A gentle hand settles on my shoulder.
"I can make no promises to you, Susan Pevensie." Caspian's voice is soft before me. "I have lost many such as you in my time as a mentor. But I this I do swear," He turns my head so we are looking each other in the eyes. "I will do all that I can to prepare you for the coming trials." He shifts so he is including Edmund in the conversation. "Both of you. You will not enter that Arena unprotected and unprepared."
Before either of us can answer, the door to the car opens, and the maid comes in. This time she is pushing a trolley decked with pastries and candies before her. Caspian rises to his feet, and returns to his seat. I hastily wipe my eyes and turn to thank the girl as she places a slice of chocolate cake in front of me. She nods, then turns and puts a crystal bowl of something red and powdery squarely on Edmund's placemat.
At first I can't tell whether it is curiosity or confusion causing his wide, brown eyes to grow even wider, but when his shaking comes back with a vengeance and his breathing turns into gasping, my own confusion turns into full-blown concern. I reach out to pull the bowl of sweets away, but Caspian beats me to it. One hand shoves it the flabbergasted maid's way, and the other grips Edmund's shoulder with bruising force.
"Edmund? Edmund! What's wrong?" Caspian barks, the urgency in his voice driving icicles of fear into my heart.
The paper-white, glassy-eyed boy says nothing, and instead vomits everything he has eaten for the past hour onto our mentor's lap.
-oOo-
Eh… Hehe… Poor Caspian. I know Edmund has it worse, but that last sentence couldn't have been fun for him. What do you think, though? Let us know in the reviews. :-D It will totally make our hectic days slightly better.
Random question (Again. Sorry.): Has anyone of you had Turkish Delight? What do you guys think of the taste? I've had it once. And I'm sorry to say to those of you who are fans/are Turkic people that I didn't like it very much. :'( To each their own, though, and if it makes you feel better, we have a delicacy in the Philippines called "balut" (boiled duck embryo eaten from the shell – baby bird bones, beak, hair and all!) and William Moseley flat out refused to eat it when he visited my country. He looked kind of green just talking about it in his interviews (he called it "half-dead chick"). :-P
(1) To everyone expecting Chapter Nine to be written in Edmund's POV, I'm really sorry. One of the reasons why it took us ages to put this up was trying to write from his POV. I wrote about 400 words until I realized I'm not going to get much out of Ed when he's being all broody and closed off like this. If you would remember, Peter whispered something to his brother at the end of Chapter Six, and the younger boy has been quite unhinged since. Don't you fret, though, The Just's League (eh hehe… I'm so lame. I can never do humor. Good luck for when I have to bring out Edmund's witty, delightfully sarcastic side) – Chapter 10 will be written from Edmund's POV. CoffeeRanger already has brilliant ideas for it so you ought to be excited! My co-author and sister-in-Christ is simply the best. :)
(2) If you want more of the moment between Lucy and Peter referenced in this story, search up A Brother's Sorrow (and A Brother's Betrayal while you're at it!) by CoffeeRanger. I suggest you keep a box of tissues within reach before reading, just in case.
"But as for you, be strong and do not give up, for your work will be rewarded." – 1 Chronicles 4:10
TO GOD BE THE GLORY!
