A/N: Thank you so much for the support on Chapter One! Your reviews mean the world to me as always, and I'm so excited to continue this adventure together!
I didn't mention it in the first chapter, but just for reference this book will be 28 chapters long, and there will also be four short tie-in novelettes afterward (though these will be optional), so probably something more like 40 total chapters of Swanwhite content.
Happy reading!
xXx
CHAPTER TWO
"How about that fall?"
"What's it like to be chosen?"
"Why do you think you won the vote?"
Reporters pressed in on every side, hands shoving microphones into Lucy's face as she struggled to follow Zardeenah through the station to the platform.
The towering phantom of a woman strode with such commanding force that none dared to stand in her way, but a dozen bulbous cameras trapped Lucy in their spotlight, and more than once she caught her own face on the live feed airing on massive screens above the crowd: eyes red, nose runny, cheeks flushed. She'd tried to collect herself over the short car ride, but the damage was already done.
Caspian glared in stark contrast, just as blank and stony as he had been at the Reaping, and never once did he look at her, or anyone else for that matter, even as they broke through the crowd and turned to face the horde of cameras pressing in greedily to capture their every detail. Lucy couldn't help but feel exceptionally out of place next to him.
At last the train doors hissed open and Zardeenah ushered them inside, the mechanical doors closing automatically behind them and bolting shut.
Lucy blinked.
The clamor of the bustling station switched off as suddenly as if she'd just stepped into another world, and for a moment she could only stare as spots danced in her vision, glaring sunlight and flashing shutters fading in the dim warmth of a richly carpeted and paneled room.
Red cushioned window seats and richly stained beams that arched up with the curve of the ceiling glowed in golden lamplight refracted by glittering crystal.
The train moved with a rush that took Lucy's breath away.
"Your rooms are this way," said Zardeenah before Lucy had even begun to regain her bearings, and the escort turned sharply down a narrow passage.
Lucy hurried to keep up, wobbling but keeping her footing as the train's strange movement evened out until it became almost unnoticeable, and Zardeenah stopped at the first door.
"Everything is at your disposal, of course, now that you are the Capitol's guests. This one is yours, my dear."
Lucy looked inside and froze.
Zardeenah said something else, but she didn't hear it, and the next moment she stood alone at the door as Caspian disappeared with the escort down the hall.
Creamy white bed sheets burned in her raw eyes, glowing in a haze with a marble vanity and downy carpet an inch deep.
Sunlight poured in through a small rectangular window, flickering as buildings and power lines sped past outside, and Lucy dug her fingers into her skirt, foreign and dirty in her stained frock and bloody stockings.
This couldn't be meant for her.
Nobody in their right mind would let her within a dozen leagues of something so clean, so… perfect.
She slipped out of her shoes before venturing slowly into the heavenly carpet in her stockinged feet, every muscle tense as if expecting a reprimand, as if expecting Zardeenah to rush back in and say there'd been a mistake.
But only the tranquil hum of the room greeted her, and she moved past the pristine bed to a door on the other side, which, when tested, revealed a small but luxurious bathroom, cupboards stuffed with more lotion and towels than she could possibly be expected to use even if she lived here for a year.
Before this moment, crashing on the Prestons' heirloom sofa had been her idea of grandeur. But even Anne Featherstone's family with their factories and their frilly dresses couldn't hold a candle to the Capitol.
Whatever flicker of satisfaction this stirred inside her, however, disappeared the moment she caught her reflection in the mirror over the sink.
Her frock looked more like a potato sack now, face pink and coated in a film of street grime. The disgust in her own eyes snapped vitriolic back at her.
In a second she'd thrown her frock to the floor and set the dusty fairytale book on the sink to peel off her leggings, ignoring the way they tore at her freshly scabbed knees. Her once-prized clothing looked little better than a rubbish heap on the white tile, and she punched a setting on the shower without even glancing at the array of buttons and dials, stepping in and letting the water scald away every trace of District Eight from her body.
Tears burned at the backs of her eyes, and she turned the water up to match.
It was at least half an hour later when Lucy emerged from the steaming shower and toweled her red arms and legs with snowy white cotton, brushing and blow-drying her hair with unnecessary force until each silky curl bounced, and at last she had to face the fact that she could not put her old clothes back on like this.
Clutching a towel to her chest, she stepped tentatively back into the bedroom, pink toes sinking into downy carpet as she set the now-gleaming fairytale book on the edge of the bed and approached the vanity.
A burst of color greeted her when she tugged the top drawer open, reds and blues and greens and yellows so vibrant she sucked in a sharp breath, unable to believe this could be meant for her, too.
Her fingers ghosted delicate fabrics, frocks and blouses and scarves in materials she couldn't even name, worlds away from the sturdy cotton she breathed day in and day out at the factory. A bright yellow sundress caught her eye, and she reached for it before she realized why it looked so familiar.
Marjorie's squeal of delight echoed in her head. Oh Lucy, look at this one! It's just the kind I like, I didn't even know you could make a dress so sunshiney!
She'd spun to point up into the shop window, smile dazzling, and Lucy had grinned right back.
When I'm rich I'll buy you ten of them, Lucy had quipped, wrapping her arms around her friend's waist and steering her away from the display they would never be able to afford.
Ugh, you'd better hurry up and get rich before it goes out of style.
Lucy had laughed. I'll marry a factory tycoon and buy you all the dresses you want.
Marjorie's giggle cut short as Lucy's stomach flipped over and she stuffed the sunny gown back into the drawer, crumpled amongst ten more just like it, just as rich, just as unfathomable, as if it meant nothing, as if it hadn't been the pinnacle of all their wildest dreams.
Now she had a vanity full of them. And of course they were meant for her. Who else would they be meant for? She was the tribute, on her way to the Capitol, to fight and die in a bloody arena. They owed her this much.
But she didn't want them now.
She opened a smaller drawer and pulled on a simple oversized shirt and silky leggings, inhaling the freshly laundered scent and running her hands up and down her sleeves, too feather-light, too soft against her skin.
A distraction.
It didn't matter now. None of it mattered. All of that was gone. Her life was gone.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Majorie's voice whispered again. The Lucy I know would never give up so easily.
"What do you know?" Lucy spat aloud. "The Marjorie I know would never—"
She choked, swallowed hard, tightened her jaw.
"Get out of my head."
And she did.
An involuntary shudder ran through her body, and she might have broken again if the flickering sunlight outside didn't catch her eye at just that moment, green shapes blurring too fast to see.
She must be a long way from Eight if she could see green.
She took a deep breath and stood on tiptoe to peer through the thick glass, just a little too high up for convenience. Probably inaccessible for a reason. A spark of frustration sputtered in her chest before she remembered the windows in the car they'd first entered.
That would be better than sulking here, at least.
Carefully she cracked the door open, looked up and down the hall, and crept, barefooted, back to the open lounge room, now empty save for a single white-clad figure standing by the door at the far end.
She paused.
The figure's visor resembled that of a peacekeeper, and for a moment she wondered if she was even allowed in here. But they didn't move. In fact they didn't seem to take any notice of her at all.
She stepped inside. Still they made no movement. And then a shadow flashed by and she glanced out the window, and forgot all about the figure.
Green stretched out as far as the eye could see, scattered trees flashing by in clumps across overgrown grasslands rising up to hills in the distance.
All her years of daydreaming became tangible in an instant, the dipping sun shrouded in wreaths of white cloud, shining bright over a wild world as if it were a living painting, only bigger, realer.
She moved, magnetized to the window, to the brilliant scene beyond, fingers brushing cool glass, less than an inch from the country she'd always longed for, yet further now than ever. A thousand worlds away.
How many nights had she spent poring through sprawling green illustrations, clumps of faded trees hugging the words of beautiful stories on every page, flickering in the light of her precious stump of candle in the rafters? How many times had she taken the same book out of the school library, until the teacher stopped making her sign for it? How many days had she wished away the endless hum of the factory wandering forests in her mind, dragging her fingers through fields of flowers instead of cotton spools, imagining somehow she would make it real, somehow she would find it, someday she would escape the tedium and run off to dance with the spirits of another age. That was what made it all worth it, when Anne's cruel words stung in her chest and her eyes, when the freezing rain dripped through crooked shingles, when the loneliness crept in and she longed for just one person who understood.
The sun dipped to touch the hills just as a click behind her made her turn and a man with scruffy white hair and beard shut the door behind him.
"Ah! I was hoping I might find one of you out and about."
Lucy started up in surprise.
She probably should have expected to see a Victor here, but it had never occurred to her that mentors took the same train as tributes, and now her sluggish mind rushed to catch up after drifting off for so long.
The man gave her a kind smile. "Finding everything alright I hope?"
"Yes, everything is… very nice."
The understatement of the century.
"Wonderful! I'm Digory Kirke." He extended a hand, and she took it with an awkward nod. She already knew his name, just like the rest of Panem did, but he looked nicer in person, smiling, with the slightest twinkle of mischief behind gold-rimmed spectacles.
"Lucy Pevensie, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine, dear girl. Now, I don't suppose you're hungry?"
"I—" She'd meant to say no, but as soon as she opened her mouth she realized she was starving. It had been a long time since yesterday's school lunch. "Er, yes, sir."
"I was thinking of getting a tray for myself," he said, as if confiding some deep secret. "My housekeeper would scold me, but I do always seem to get a bit hungry before dinner." He grinned, and Lucy couldn't help but smile back. "I'll have something brought in."
He turned and murmured a few words to the person by the door, who disappeared instantly through it as he turned back to Lucy.
"Have a seat, if you like. You seemed quite engrossed by the view."
"Yes," she admitted, lowering herself to the plush cushions of the window seat, racing scenery at her back.
Digory sat beside her, still watching intently as if waiting for her to continue.
She fumbled. "It's just… I don't know." Digory seemed nice enough, but she wasn't about to mention any dreams of escaping into the great open wilderness. "There's nothing like it back in Eight."
"There certainly isn't." He smiled.
The white-clad person, who must have been some kind of servant, reappeared wheeling a tea tray stacked with all manner of dainty treats.
"Thank you," said Lucy reflexively as they set it in front of her.
"Actually," said Digory, lowering his voice once they had returned to their post, "It's considered bad manners to speak to an avox—except to give orders, of course—seeing as they can say nothing back."
"Why not?"
"Well, because they have no tongues."
Lucy's eyes snapped back to the person, all defining features shrouded by visor or uniform. A wave of mild horror washed over her, followed immediately by a sick jolt of pity.
Digory paid them no mind and took a small pastry from the tray.
Lucy wasn't sure she still had an appetite. "What on earth have they done to deserve that?"
"It is beyond my knowledge what the Capitol considers an offense worthy of such a punishment. But I suppose silent servitude is better than some fates."
Lucy looked at him, but he only chewed as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
For a moment she eyed the powdered and jellied treats, biting the tip of her tongue as uncomfortable thoughts made her stomach squirm, but the delicious smells won out, and she picked up a square tart with yellow filling that turned out to be lemon when she nibbled it.
If anything, the Capitol's food was even nicer than their clothes, and in no time she found herself taking a second and third, forgetting her manners in front of the mentor, and momentarily putting the idea of tongues out of her head. It was hard to worry about anything when you were eating sweeter strawberry scones than you had ever tasted in your life.
"So, Lucy Pevensie, tell me about yourself."
She looked up, pausing mid-bite, to find Digory's twinkling eyes watching her over his spectacles as he leaned back against the window.
"It's my job to help you from now on, and I do find that's always easier when you know a person."
"Oh, um, I'm afraid I'm an orphan, sir," she said, straightening up and attempting to regain a little dignity, "There's not much to know."
"On the contrary, I was orphaned myself, and I think I turned out at least mildly interesting." He smirked, though it wasn't haughty or unkind. "There must be something."
"Well… I grew up in the orphanage, until I got too old and had to move to the girls' home."
Digory nodded. "It doesn't sound like you liked it much."
"No," she admitted. "Nobody did, really."
"Past tense?"
"Oh, um, yeah, I left a few years ago."
Digory's eyebrows rose. "And where have you been since then?"
Lucy hesitated, but in the end felt compelled to answer truthfully. It could hardly matter now. They couldn't arrest her for trespassing when she'd already been reaped. At least, she hoped not. "In the crawlspace behind your old attic, sir."
Digory's look of surprise turned a moment later to delight, and he laughed.
Lucy heaved a sigh of relief.
"Really, now? I used to play there as a boy. I'm glad to know it's been going to good use, I had no idea it was still open. You must be a very clever and resourceful girl to pull that off."
Lucy shrugged as a blush crept up her face, but before she could come up with an answer, the far door opened and Zardeenah strolled into the room, just as gothic and striking as ever.
Caspian followed, and Lucy's heart skipped a beat.
She looked quickly away, but the glowing sunset had already burned his image into her mind, red silk shirt clinging to broad shoulders, Capitol finery already at home on his body. As if she needed another reminder that this was no fair competition.
"Well, I believe it's time for a proper dinner," said Digory with a cheery smile. "Oh, hush, Zardeenah," he added, though the escort had said nothing, only eyed their snack tray with vague disapproval.
Lucy stood and followed obediently into the next compartment, a lamplit dining room largely taken up by a long, mahogany table set with glistening crystalware.
Digory motioned for them to sit again, and Lucy slipped into the chair opposite him.
Caspian took the one beside her.
She kept her eyes trained on her hands.
Just as Zardeenah settled in at the head of the table, another woman entered the room.
"Oh, you're all here!" She seated herself gracefully at Digory's side. "I'm Polly Plummer."
But of course, she needn't have introduced herself either. If anything, her Games were even more famous than Digory's.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Plummer," Lucy said, and Caspian only nodded.
"Oh, Polly is fine." She waved off the formality good-naturedly, fading blonde hair trundled up into a loose bun, features sharp and intelligent. She had the kind of face that made Lucy want to like her at once, yet at the same time made her feel rather small.
The next moment a train of servants—or, avoxes—filed into the room with trays and platters of food heaped to such excess that Lucy had to keep her eyes from bugging out; dishes of fruit and platters of rolls and a whole roast chicken.
The mentors helped themselves the moment the avoxes retreated and Lucy followed suit in spite of her apprehension around such fine china, hunger winning out again.
"The first order of business," said Digory as he buttered a steaming roll, "Is to eat as much as you can while you're in the Capitol's care."
"You'll want to put on as much weight as you can within the next week," agreed Polly.
They spoke of it so easily, as if competing in a national gladiator match happened all the time. Then again, it did. They must have trained dozens of tributes in their time.
Lucy's stomach twisted, but she bit into a cinnamon dusted apple slice anyway.
"And what about training?" asked Caspian.
It was the first time she'd heard him speak, his voice rich and warm, and somehow more human than she'd expected, but laced with a hard edge.
"What do you—"
"Let us be careful," said Digory, gently cutting him off, "that we are not getting too far ahead of ourselves. I think we must first ask whether you two would find it more comfortable to be coached separately, or together?"
Lucy glanced up just as Caspian glanced at her, dark hair and scantily bearded face even more handsome up close, strong brow and bowed lips, but it was his eyes that sent a jolt of electricity straight through Lucy's chest, her own uncertainty flashing back at her before they both looked away.
"You needn't decide yet," said Polly, "There will be plenty of time to think about what you want to do, if you're not sure."
Caspian shook his head. "Together is all right by me."
Lucy blinked in surprise and almost choked. "Uh, me too," she said without thinking. She hadn't thought at all yet about strategy. Was she supposed to do that now?
Polly smiled. "You're eager. It seems you may be as much like your father as you look."
Caspian straightened suddenly in his chair. "You knew my father?"
Polly nodded. "I did. He was a good man. I'm glad to see he passed on more to you than his name."
For a second Caspian's stony mask slipped, something almost desperate leaping into his eyes as his lips parted wordlessly. Lucy felt she was intruding on something very private, and she was glad when Digory spoke again.
"Well, now we've got that sorted, why don't you both focus on filling your stomachs, and we'll get down to business after dessert?"
Lucy obliged in spite of the vaguely uncomfortable feeling settling in her gut, and ate until she simply could not hold more, still picking at a bowl of iced fruit and cream when Polly pulled a remote control from beneath the table and switched on a screen that took up the entire far wall.
Digory produced a pipe from somewhere on his person and leaned back in his chair.
For now the screen only displayed a Capitol symbol rotating on a red background, but that wouldn't last long.
"The recap of the Reapings," said Polly. "You'll want to get familiar with your competition."
Lucy didn't want to get familiar with her competition, actually. She didn't want to think about it at all. Everything was moving too fast. Wasn't it enough to eat the Capitol's food and pretend she was here for any other reason? She glanced at Caspian, but his thoughts again hid behind the mask he wore so easily.
The screen blinked to the town square of District One.
"Do you think," Lucy said before she could stop herself (and in any case, Polly and Digory seemed like the sort who liked it when you asked questions), "Do you think, with the Quell, the career districts might have normal tributes like the rest of us?"
Everyone knew that districts One, Two, and Four trained for the Games, even though it was technically against the rules. But this year, when volunteers weren't allowed—
"Unlikely," said Digory, and Lucy's spirits sank. "They take too much pride in the Games, their people will be sure to vote for strong contenders."
The television proved him right less than a minute later when a beautiful girl with long, dark hair strode up to District One's stage and a hushed commotion swept through the crowd. Susan Bonner, the commentators repeated. Even Caspian's shoulders slumped when she turned around, beaming. Anyone could see she wanted to be there.
District Two's boy stood even more imposing than Caspian, tall and blond and broad and hardly a boy at all. Peter Wolfsbane.
If anything, the Quell only seemed to have fueled their enthusiasm.
But then came several more of the sort Lucy had been expecting: shabby-clothed, underfed kids whose eyes darted around as if expecting to be hit. The expendables.
And before she could brace for it, the scene changed to a drab grey town square, garish banners fluttering in the breeze, and the name rang out, flat and tinny now on the monitor. Lucy Pevensie.
They had indeed captured her fall on camera, and the commentators had a field day with her laughing classmates.
Oh-ho-ho, somebody's unpopular.
What a shame, I'd love to know the story behind this, seems like she wasn't expecting it.
That is not her color, I must say.
Lucy gripped her own hands to keep them from trembling.
Hair frizzy and unkempt, clothes mismatched and filthy like she'd crawled out of a dumpster; she was ridiculous, she was a joke. The shot zoomed in tight on her face, and even her betrayed, angry tears glistened for all to see.
She ached to sink into the floor, to shrivel up and disappear, but at last Caspian's name rang out and the cameras turned mercifully to him.
This time she heard the murmurs of the crowd, and one or two girls even burst into tears in the background.
Would you look at that, Eight might really be trying this year!
Now that's a contender.
Not bad, not bad at all.
But when Caspian turned to face the cameras, his glare pierced Lucy through the screen, dark eyes electrified with pure hatred.
Her chest clenched.
Who was he looking at? Did he know who had voted him out, like she did?
The scene moved on to the next district, and she and Caspian both let out low breaths, but that glare lingered even as the last of the tributes went by.
He wasn't the only formidable boy from an outlying district, it seemed, and some of the girls clearly came from rich families. Aravis from Eleven already looked ready to punch someone, while Lilliandil from Seven cried very prettily with glittering blue eyes and flushed pink cheeks.
The national anthem played, and the TV set switched off by itself.
Digory leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. "Now, who stood out to you?"
Lucy racked her mind hurriedly. "I think— Susan, from One."
"The boy from Ten," said Caspian. "Emmett, or, Emeth, or something."
Digory nodded, satisfied. "Good. Of course you can't tell much from a Reaping, tributes can surprise you in any number of ways. It's important never to underestimate anyone."
Lucy nodded, but her mind wandered back to the Reaping, her pathetic image next to Caspian's.
The girls who cried at the Reaping probably daydreamed about dating someone like him, let alone the respect a name like Telmar commanded, the wealth associated with factory families. She'd never seen him in school, so he'd probably dropped out to work. She could just imagine Anne Featherstone gushing over a working boyfriend.
"...alright, Lucy?"
She blinked. "Yeah," she said, not sure what she was answering, too embarrassed to admit she hadn't been listening.
"We should get as much of a head start as we can," continued Digory, not seeming to have noticed. "Angles are all about evoking an emotional reaction, and you already have an element of sympathy on your side."
Sympathy? That was just a nice way of saying pity. And she knew what pity felt like.
The women at the factory pitied her, the way anyone pitied a street urchin working double hours after school just to eat, the way she pitied the white-clad servants with no tongues. Kids like her were everywhere, and people got used to looking the other way, or worse, looking and doing nothing. She knew better than anyone the alienation of pity, of being other, being less.
And she already knew what the Capitol thought of her.
"It's getting late," said Polly, "You two should get some sleep before we reach the city. We can continue this conversation in the morning."
Digory agreed, and Lucy muttered her goodnights as they all stood and split off to their separate sleeping quarters.
A small bedside lamp cast her room in a dim amber glow, honey on silk, and she shut the door and sighed against it, dangerous tears threatening her vision for the thousandth time that day, blurring the lamplight as she crawled into bed and buried her face in the cool pillows.
No matter how she clutched the covers around her, no matter how the comforter slipped over her toes and wrapped her in a kind of luxury she could never even have imagined, the weight of emptiness still crowded her lungs, cloying heat still pressed into her throat.
She rolled over and her fingers brushed something hard and smooth.
The book.
She ran a hand over its dented cover and pulled it up next to her, gold lettering glinting in the fractal light, familiar figures greeting her as she flipped through thick pages filled with big, blocky letters.
But the scenes she had so often escaped into afforded no comfort now, her daydreams empty, her imagined future gone.
She had no future now.
Everything she'd ever hoped for had been a fairytale, and she'd been a fool to think otherwise. Of course she could never escape. Of course her life had been a losing game from the beginning. She'd only refused to admit it, pretending there was something more, a purpose to any of it, when not a single person had ever cared about her, not really.
Mrs Preston hadn't even visited her in the Justice Building, the only adult who'd ever given her a birthday present, orange kerchief now discarded on the bathroom floor. In one single instant she'd transformed from a daughter's friend into an unfortunate circumstance, something to be brushed away and forgotten, something that no longer mattered, because it was doomed. She was doomed.
The class she'd known all her life had sold her out to die, because she'd wounded Anne Featherstone's precious pride. And oddly enough, it wasn't even Anne she hated. It was all those who had followed, who had done it just to save themselves. It was the cowardice, the willingness to bend that Lucy had never possessed. It was Marjorie, the girl she'd trusted with her soul, her life.
Her fingers trembled as she flipped the pages, vision blurring colorful pictures that felt so despairingly, achingly like home. Home she could never return to. Home that had never existed in the first place.
There would be no happy ending for Lucy Pevensie.
Finally she stopped on a page with no words, filled to the corners with the image of a huge, golden Lion, majestic eyes almost sad in the dim light, almost gentle.
"Oh, Aslan," she whispered, clutching the book to her chest, rolling over to lay her head on it. "What am I supposed to do now?"
And then the tears broke free, falling hot over the bridge of her nose into the glossy pages, spilling free from the churning sea inside, unchecked, out of control, emotions always wild but now untameable, loose from their carefully constructed cage for all the world to see, for her mentors to see, for her partner to see. And it was a long time before exhaustion and a gentle, imperceptible warmth dragged her down into a starless, dreamless sleep.