A/N: The idea for this crossover first came in 2016, back when it was meant to be a collaboration between myself and MollyPevensie, and although the story is now unrecognizable from its original form, I cannot begin without thanking her for those sunny afternoons at our grandmother's house plotting out worlds and characters that I never quite abandoned, and eventually adapted into what you are about to read.

I can only say I am beyond excited to finally share this labor of love with you wonderful people, now that I've been working and reworking it for over two years, and I'm so grateful for everyone who has supported me along the way!

Trigger warnings: Blood and gore, major character injury, major character death, brief language, underage drinking, mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation, mentions of self harm, mentions of weight and starvation, mentions of child abuse.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to CS Lewis, with the exception of Bridget Jackson and Arabella Garrett who are my own creations. Panem (and Caesar) belong to Suzanne Collins.

Dedicated to Emily, Abby W, and Abby H

xXx

CHAPTER ONE

Lucy shot bolt upright and almost smacked her head on the low slanting beams of the roof, mid-morning light pouring in through the cracks.

She'd slept in, she was late! School must have started hours ago!

She kicked off her threadbare quilt and scrambled to pull on her shoes, fingers fumbling as she stuffed rubber straps through their buckles, but then the silence struck her. No movement creaked in the house below, no dishes clattered or voices droned, muffled by the paper thin walls. No buggies squeaked in the streets, and even the grinding hum of the factories had somehow been switched off. The air hung eerily still, as if everything in the world were dead except for her.

With a deep and shuddering sigh, she plopped back down onto her makeshift bed.

Of course.

Reaping Day.

She ran a hand through her hair, pushing a curtain of tangles out of her face as her heart throbbed painfully in her chest and she waited for it to calm.

Usually the noise of the family below served as her alarm, but almost everyone in District Eight would be sleeping in today. The ceremony didn't even start til eleven, and nobody but district officials bothered to get there a minute before they absolutely had to.

Lucy pulled a comb from the blue plastic milk crate she kept behind her blankets, and set about the long and arduous task of untangling her copper-colored rat's nest as quiet golden sunlight filtered strangely into her attic crawlspace: the long forgotten tunnel that ran the length of a row of townhouses.

It had no floor, save for the plywood she'd put down herself to avoid crashing through the rafters into some unsuspecting family's sitting room, and it smelled vaguely of must and soft rot from when the roof leaked, but compared to the shelter on Fifth, it was a paradise, and now in the silence it was almost peaceful.

But she couldn't stay for long.

No school meant no shower, so even in spite of her best efforts her curls still frizzed terribly at the ends, and when she'd given up on that she tugged on her stockings without holes and the faded robin's egg frock she only wore on holidays.

Lastly, she tied a stiff little kerchief around her neck, orange and dotted all over with neon pink flowers. Mrs Preston had given it to her on her fifteenth birthday, a relic from her own school years, terribly out of fashion now, not to mention how badly it clashed with Lucy's hair, but still she loved it. It had been a gift, and nobody but the Prestons ever gave Lucy gifts.

She moved to get up, but a second later clambered back to grab a glossy library book from the bottom of the crate, shining like a jewel amongst her other well-worn belongings; strange figures twisting up the cover in reds and greens and blues, embossed willowy women with flowers in their hair, little men with goats' legs.

Golden letters on the binding glinted 'Legends and Folk Tales of the Old Country.'

She tucked it under her arm and bent double as she stood, stepping from rafter to rafter with the ease of practice until she reached the door to the empty house at the end of the row, not much bigger than a cupboard door. It swung open with a rusty squeak and she crawled out into the stale air of a long-abandoned attic.

Dust coated old bookcases in layers an inch thick, every surface bare, long since raided by the poor, homeless, or opportunistic, and she dragged her sheet of plywood over its well worn path in the dirt to cover the door before turning to smooth the wrinkles from her clothes.

If her dress didn't pinch too tight at her curves or hang too loose at her collarbone, if her shoes hadn't begun to separate from the soles in the back, one might think her simply a town girl in old play clothes she was about to outgrow.

Her stomach grumbled.

Hopefully Marjorie Preston would ask her to dinner later, but for now she ignored the hollow pang in her gut and descended the attic stairs, avoiding the broken steps she could by now have navigated in her sleep.

According to the old women at the factory, the end house had once belonged to Digory Kirke's family before he won the Hunger Games and moved to the Victor's Village. He must never have sold it either, because no one had ever lived here afterward, and it had since fallen so far into disrepair that nobody ever came except to smoke or shoot up.

She'd nearly started down the second flight when the telltale crunch of gravel outside pulled her up short.

The faint rumble of an engine cut off.

She didn't have to look to recognize the black, box-like van.

Peacekeepers.

"Bother it all," she hissed.

A thump and scuffle downstairs meant someone else had recognized the trouble, too, but not before the bang of the front door signaled their demise, and Lucy bolted through the nearest doorway as a deep voice barked "Check the other rooms!"

Boots thudded up the stairs.

Lucy skidded to a window overlooking the back alley, knocked the last bits of glass out of the frame and flung one leg over it, sticking her book in her mouth as she swung the rest of her body out.

Her feet scrambled for purchase on the warped siding, fingers gripping the edge of the windowsill, straining against her full weight.

The peacekeeper's steel-toed footsteps thudded into the room.

Lucy froze, trying desperately not to sink her teeth into the soft binding of the book.

They stopped right above her.

She held her breath.

The sharp window ledge dug into her fingers.

What must have been only a few seconds stretched on for an eternity, until at last the peacekeeper moved away and said something she couldn't hear in another room.

She hung there for another few seconds before locating a slot wide enough to wedge her right foot into, and climbing down the splintering boards, jumping the last few feet to the ground.

Her knees almost buckled on impact but she caught herself just in time to avoid scuffing her only good stockings, and with a shudder of relief she took the book out of her mouth.

She glanced both ways before darting out onto the sidewalk, setting a brisk pace as if she'd been coming that way all along, and when she came around the front, one of the visored soldiers glanced up from the van, but she didn't stop, and he didn't challenge her.

A block away, she let herself relax.

The dull grey of District Eight stretched out ahead of her, closed signs hanging in shop windows, winter's chill still clinging to the April air.

Nothing like a good house raid to put things in perspective. Better a Reaping than a bullet in the head.

She almost giggled aloud. Yes, that was a handy little maxim. They should put that in the textbooks.

Another black van rumbled past, and in her mind she stepped into a forest, far beyond the reaches of District Eight, treading over ferns instead of broken concrete, breathing fresh, clean, piney air instead of the thick factory smoke that coated every surface in a layer of grime even as the towering stacks lay dormant.

She'd never smelled pine, but she liked to imagine it a little like the peppermint balls they got in school on holidays.

Her peppermint scented forest shrouded the dead vines crawling up factory walls and rickety apartment buildings, even more convincing in the peace and quiet so that she almost began to imagine birdsong. Until she turned a corner and at last the dreary bustle of the main street shattered her illusion.

A mother led two skinny children down the sidewalk with a baby in her arms, an elderly man leaned heavily on a cane as a well-to-do family brushed past with matching furry muffs, and a group of school-age boys shared a joint under a storefront canopy; all dressed for celebration, none smiling.

Lucy had almost reached the town square by the time she spotted the one person she actually wanted to see.

"Marjorie!"

She broke into a sprint across the street and caught up to the familiar black bob cut, slowing just as the girl's parents turned to greet her.

"Good morning, Mr Preston! Mrs Preston!"

"Good morning, Lucy," said the woman with a smile, and glanced at the orange kerchief. "You look very nice today."

Lucy beamed. "Thank you!"

"Are you alright from here, darling?" she asked as she turned back to her daughter, whose eyes remained fixed on the ground.

Marjorie nodded. The yellow bow in her hair bounced.

"We'll just find a place to watch, then," said Mrs Preston, and pulled the girl into a short hug before walking off down a side street with her husband.

"Hey," said Lucy, falling into step beside Marjorie. "You don't suppose your parents would mind if I crashed at your place tonight, do you?"

"Hm?" she hummed distantly. "Why?"

"I'm not sure it's safe to go back to my spot too soon. Bit of a peacekeeper problem."

"Oh, okay. I can ask."

Lucy glanced at her. "Are you okay?"

Marjorie shrugged, and her dark almond eyes flicked up to meet Lucy's before falling back to the sidewalk. She opened her mouth, shut it again, then said "Did you decide who you're going to pick?"

A weight like a stone plunged into Lucy's gut. "No. I don't know. Did you?"

Marjorie pursed her lips and shook her head. The bow bounced again.

Her drawn expression mirrored the one she'd worn last month when they announced the Quarter Quell in school.

"In commemoration of the 225th anniversary of the Hunger Games, every eligible child will cast a vote to choose their district's representative tributes."

Lucy shivered as the last part of the announcement replayed with perfect clarity.

"Participation in this vote is mandatory. Failure to comply will result in public execution."

She took a deep breath and put on a smile, grabbing Marjorie's hand and swinging it. "It's alright, for once being nobodies will work in our favor."

Marjorie glanced up at her, and the barest hint of a smile glinted in her eyes before her expression fell again. "But... what about..."

"What about what?"

"I mean, well, what about Them? Anne wasn't too happy when you said all those things about her in front of the whole class."

"If Anne Featherstone doesn't want to hear the truth, she should learn not to pick on my best friend." Lucy squeezed Marjorie's hand. "She is a repulsive, spoiled, backstabbing little beast, and I don't care who knows it."

Marjorie's face went white.

"Oh, it's alright!" Lucy stepped off the sidewalk and pulled Marjorie around to face her. "I promise."

But Marjorie shook her head, voice quivering in a near whisper, fear reflecting sharp in dark eyes. "You don't understand, Lu, they're dangerous, you need to keep your head down like the rest of us or they really might do something."

Lucy furrowed her brow. "Like what?"

Marjorie drew a shuddering breath, but let it out again and shrugged, defeated.

"They can't do anything to me they haven't already tried, I understand that better than anyone, okay? Anne's gang might be a bunch of spiteful suck-ups, but they're only a handful of kids out of the whole school. They can't do any real damage. It'll be okay, I swear it."

Marjorie's lower lip trembled. "Promise?"

"Nothing's going to happen." Lucy cupped her friend's round olive face in her much paler, calloused hand. "Let's just get it over with, hm? We'll go to the park after, I'll read you a story." She lifted the book in her other hand.

"Oh, did you really bring that thing here?"

"Why not?"

The girl scoffed. "You really are looking for trouble, Lucy Pevensie."

Lucy smiled, and a few minutes later they walked together into the town square.

Too-bright neon banners hung from the Justice Building above the makeshift stage, peacekeepers positioned at every corner just waiting for someone to step out of line, but Lucy ignored all of this and joined the group of other children waiting to sign in.

When they reached the census table, she took the lead.

An electric shock snapped up her arm as a Capitol attendant pricked her index finger with a small device and pressed the bleeding side down onto the census book, scanning it with the same machine. Lucy Pevensie, 15 flashed onto the screen in green, blocky letters, and the woman waved her forward.

The second table held only a row of touch tablets, all firmly attached to their stands, all displaying the same screen that read votes. Three more Capitol officials in pressed white uniforms stood behind this table, watching to make sure nobody skipped out.

Lucy stuck her finger in her mouth and tentatively tapped a screen. A keyboard appeared, and her heart rate doubled.

Seconds ticked by.

Her chest tightened.

She had to do something.

Still no closer to a decision than she had been all month, she tapped the letter A and a dropdown menu appeared, listing off the eligible A-names: Adela, Alfred, Anne…

Anne Featherstone.

It wouldn't be wrong… not if she had no other choice. And in any case, Anne would never really be chosen; miss popular, miss teacher's pet; even if half the girls secretly hated her. It wouldn't matter.

Lucy tapped Anne's name, and tapped okay before she could change her mind.

A weight lifted from her shoulders and she stepped away from the table.

Marjorie rejoined her a few moments later, pale and unfocused. Lucy almost asked, but decided she wouldn't very much like to admit to voting for Anne, so instead she led the way toward the Fifteens section.

"Just imagine if we lived back before there were Reapings. Back when there were forests instead of towns, and the rivers came to life and the animals could talk."

Marjorie swallowed. "You never do shut up about those stories, huh? They're probably not even true."

"Well, then, they're better than true." Lucy grinned. "Come on, just imagine it, that's what always makes me feel better. Imagine living wherever you wanted, and doing whatever wanted, whenever you wanted."

A very tiny smile curled at the other girl's lips, and she sighed. "That would be better than this, I suppose." Then she glanced around as if afraid someone had heard.

"Relax," said Lucy, "There's nothing to—" But when she looked up, she realized there was something to worry about. Just not in the way she'd meant.

"Well, well, look who it is," came the unmistakable lilting singsong of Anne Featherstone, followed by the laughter of three of her closest confidants.

Lucy rolled her eyes.

"It's the orphan and her little friend. I do hope we've been voting wisely." She cocked her head, platinum blonde hair rippling, glossy pink lips widening into a cruel smile as Marjorie hung her head and took a step back.

"Hey, back off," snapped Lucy.

"Oh no," cooed a dark haired girl behind Anne. "Someone didn't tell Pevensie about the dress code."

"What a shame," sneered Anne, eyes lingering with twisted delight on the orange kerchief. "That must be embarrassing."

Heat rushed to Lucy's face. "Not nearly as embarrassing as your personality."

Anne's painted mouth twitched. She took a step closer, rose scented perfume assaulting Lucy's nostrils. Then in a flash, Anne snatched the book out from under her arm and retreated back to her friends, holding it up for all to see. "What's the orphan reading?"

"Give that back this second, Anne Featherstone!" Lucy lunged for it, but a boy grabbed her arm and yanked her back while Anne flipped through colorful pages.

"Baby stories," she scoffed. "Well, that's just the sort of thing I'd expect from a street rat."

Her friends laughed and took turns passing it around.

"You really do keep strange company, Preston. Can't your parents afford better?"

Marjorie kept her eyes on the ground and said nothing.

"I'm surprised they even trust orphans with school property," said the dark haired girl, flipping to the library notecard in the back, on which Lucy's name was printed in extremely careful handwriting. "She's probably trying to steal it."

"Or sell it," said Anne, taking the book and fingering the paper sleeve that held the card. "Daddy says you couldn't feed a dog on factory pay." She met Lucy's eyes steadily, and in one swift motion, tore the sleeve from the book.

"Stop it!" shouted Lucy.

"Oops," smiled Anne, letting the paper flutter to the ground. "Not very careful with our things, are we Pevensie?"

Lucy wrenched her arm free, and would have swung if a peacekeeper's whistle hadn't blown at that exact moment.

"Break it up!" a rough voice boomed, "Keep moving! Into your areas, now!"

Anne's friends scattered, and she shot one last victorious grin at Lucy before tucking the book under her arm and walking away.

"Come on," muttered Marjorie, "He's still looking at you. Let's just go."

Lucy glanced at the peacekeeper and back at Anne. Her desire to run after the girl must have shown on her face, but what use was it to escape peacekeepers at home if she was just going to cause a scene here?

She turned with a shaky breath and followed Marjorie into the roped-off Fifteens section, hands trembling as they dug into her skirt, clutching fistfuls of fabric. Deep down inside, a very tiny voice said it wouldn't be so bad if Anne disappeared forever.

Other girls filed in around them, but Lucy didn't look up or greet them as she usually might have.

It was almost a relief when the mayor's voice finally broke through her poisonous thoughts and welcomed them to the Reaping as if they'd had any choice in coming.

He gave his usual speech, the history of Panem, how their ancestors had breached a rift between worlds and conquered the virgin land of Narnia. Then the districts' rebellion, and the birth of the Hunger Games.

Practiced words bounced like static between Lucy's ears, usually the most tolerable part of the ceremony, now barely a distraction until the mayor handed the microphone over to District Eight's terrifying escort, Zardeenah.

Tall and dark with surgically altered black eyes, the woman's gold tattoos traced sharp features as if her face were some kind of abstract painting, voice always shockingly deep when it toned in over the loudspeakers: "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Reaping of the Two Hundred and Twenty Fifth Hunger Games."

Camera crews perched atop the surrounding buildings like vultures turned to focus on her.

"I am pleased to announce the results of the vote have just come in." She smoothed two slips of paper between clawed fingers and smiled a garish white smile. "I trust you all made good decisions."

No reaction came from the crowd, only the shifting of feet filled the hollow pause, but Zardeenah didn't seem to mind.

"Now, the first tribute from District Eight…" She held up the first slip and unfolded it slowly.

The crowd hung on a single breath.

Lucy's fingers dug into her palms, cold sweat soaking through the fabric of her dress.

"Lucy Pevensie."

Lucy's heart stopped.

For a second she forgot how to breathe.

That couldn't be right— that couldn't be—

Something sharp struck her between the shoulder blades and she lurched forward onto the path, hands slamming into the dirt.

Laughter erupted behind her.

No one moved to help.

Hurriedly she pushed herself to her feet, gravel digging into burning palms, arms throbbing numb, but by the time she regained her composure every eye in the square had locked onto her, the pressure of their gaze squeezing her lungs. She could only straighten her shoulders and make her way up to the stage as gracefully as possible, trying to ignore the way her knees smarted as humiliation pricked at her cheeks.

"Good, good," said Zardeenah when Lucy turned to stand beside her, as if nothing were amiss in the slightest.

Her eyes flew to her classmates, all avoiding her gaze or looking at the ground while Anne and her friends giggled in the back. Then Marjorie glanced up, just for a second, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

But her expression was not one of sorrow. It was one of shame. And a bolt of understanding struck through Lucy's chest.

Hot anger flooded into her eyes before she could blink it back, and Marjorie looked away.

Don't cry.

Don't cry.

Don't you dare cry, Lucy Pevensie.

"And our second tribute," the escort's cavernous voice boomed over the speakers, echoing in another world, vibrating in her chest. "Our male tribute… Caspian Telmar."

A hush fell over the square, confused glances spreading slowly back through every section.

The name Telmar carried real power in District Eight; engraved over factory doors and printed on shipping containers, even etched into the plastic crate in Lucy's attic, but she'd never heard of a Telmar in school, close to her own age, anywhere near eligible for the Games.

The answering silence stretched out for so long Zardeenah almost read the name again, but at last a boy emerged from the Eighteens section and walked stiffly to the stage.

He looked too old, with the signature dark, calloused hands and muscular build of a factory worker, hair long enough to brush his shoulders, and scanty beard already tracing his jaw. But most notable of all were his eyes, so brown they were almost black.

Any other day Lucy might have thought him handsome, might have wondered why she'd never seen him before, but now she only felt small as he mounted the stage. She had no chance. She was already dead.

"Here we are," said Zardeenah, a wicked smile in her booming voice. "District Eight, your tributes! Lucy Pevensie, and Caspian Telmar."

Scattered, polite applause spread feebly across the square, and Zardeenah didn't ask for volunteers. That wasn't allowed this year. But even if it had been, it would have made no difference.

"Shake hands, you two."

Lucy turned, blinking furiously to clear her vision as she took Caspian's outstretched hand, warm and strong.

It could have snapped her arm in half.

They shook once, let go, and Zardeenah paraded them to the back of the stage and through the towering doors of the Justice Building.

A stately grey hall enveloped them, the garish color of the square blotted out by centuries-old stonework. Lucy had never been inside, but she had no time to look around now as a peacekeeper searched her at once, led her into a small waiting room, and left her there by herself to wait out her last hour in District Eight.

Not even the tick of a clock broke the static of that room; shabby wallpaper peeling, an old TV set propped up in the corner, the red light of a security camera blinking from a tangle of wires like a silent scream.

For several long moments, nothing felt real. She wasn't here, she couldn't be here. The hollow numbness settling in her chest suffocated her, emptiness ringing in her ears.

Lucy Pevensie.

How many times had she imagined that abyssal voice calling her name? Lying awake in her attic, daydreaming the shock, debating whether she ought to smile, throw them all off, run away.

But it had never been real.

It had never been this.

No one would come to say goodbye. Unless Anne Featherstone felt like gloating.

How had she done it? How did the entire class agree to vote for her? Had Anne and her friends spread some terrible rumor?

You don't understand, Lu, they're dangerous.

Bile rose in her throat.

She looked down at her palms, stinging and filthy where she'd broken her fall, tiny strips of skin hanging from bright red beads. Blood seeped through her stockings where small stones had pierced her knees, too.

Her one good pair of stockings.

For a moment she could only think of how long it had taken her to save up for them after the last pair ripped.

And then the door to the little room clicked open and she spun, stiffening. But standing in the doorway, flanked by peacekeepers, was only Marjorie.

Lucy looked away.

"They—" The girl's voice cracked and she swallowed.

Lucy stared at the wall, heat rushing into her eyes again, into her throat, choking her.

"They left this in the square."

A second of silence stretched on, and on, and at last she dragged her eyes to the object in Marjorie's delicate hand. The battered, dust-covered fairytale book, gold lettering just barely visible along the spine.

"I thought… maybe…"

"Did you do it?" The words came out loud and abrupt in the stale air.

Marjorie's eyes flicked up, wide, shining.

"Did you vote for me?"

"Lucy, I—"

"TELL ME! I thought we were friends!"

"We— we— I didn't mean for it to— they talked to everyone, they told the others they'd leave them alone next year if you were reaped!"

Lucy's brows knit and her lips parted, voice within an inch of breaking. "Is that what they told you?"

"They said— they said they would hurt us both if you weren't— I thought— maybe— you know— at least you would have a chance to—"

"A chance to WHAT, Marj? I don't have the smallest fraction of a chance!"

Marjorie bit her lip. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Lucy glared at the yellow bow in her best friend's hair, slipping down the side, bouncing with every tiny movement. "Get out."

"I—" Marjorie tried to stammer, backing through the door and laying the book gently on the ground as she turned the knob. She looked as if she wanted to say something else, but Lucy never took her burning eyes away, and a moment later she disappeared.

The door clicked.

Don't cry.

She blinked, but the room only blurred into a shimmering sea of grey and brown, the weight of tears brimming in her eyes, seeping into her lower lashes.

No matter how she breathed, no matter how she tried to clear her head, the pressure only redoubled, heat crowding up into her face as her stomach churned.

Don't cry.

She'd learned even as a child never to show her tears, never to cry where anyone else could see. Tears betrayed weakness. And weakness made you a target.

But she'd already wasted that chance, hadn't she?

She'd been the target all along.

Don't cry.

Don't cry.

Something gold flashed in her burning sea, the shape of a book discarded by the door, and before she could grasp desperately again for resolve, everything inside her shattered.

A gut wrenching sob racked her body and she doubled over, saltwater spilling hot over her face and over her lips and into her mouth and down her throat, and she sank, trembling, to the floor, fingers digging into her scalp until her nails ached, bloody knees staining rough carpet as she crawled toward the book, grasped the edge and clutched it to her chest, corners digging into her stomach as her breath hitched.

And her tears mingled with the dirt and dust of the trampled binding, carving paths of shining color until the peacekeepers came to collect her an hour later.