Warning: The contents of this chapter warrant a more mature rating for suggestive sexual content, and mild descriptions of abuse and violence.

Chapter 15

So this was what contentment felt like. Pure, utter, unequivocal contentment and very thorough satisfaction. He was in a woman's bed. Not just any woman though. The woman. The only woman that mattered as far as he was concerned. His Sisters notwithstanding of course, or his daughters for they were still girls who needed protecting—his daughters not his Sisters; his Sisters could protect themselves and any boy, man, or king who thought otherwise was an idiota.

To make his contentment and satisfaction even more complete, Lena was still with him in bed. She was snuggled up to his side, eyes half-closed, and fingers drawing lazy patterns on his still bare chest. And judging by her soft mewling, really he could think of no other way to describe it, she was feeling as unequivocally content and as thoroughly satisfied as he was. An acknowledgment that made him swell with pride.

He had done that. He. Him. He alone. No one else. At least…he believed he was the only one; she had never mentioned anyone else. He knew what the Telmarines did to her, but that didn't count; that wasn't her choice. And he knew of the marks they worked together for the crown, but she claimed to have never slept with any of them. What about in between the two? Had there been anyone then?

Lena moaned and stretched, her back arching and her bare leg sliding over his. Edmund decided it really didn't matter if there had been anyone else. No one could ever love her or satisfy her as thoroughly as he could and as he would for the rest of his days. He put his finger and his thumb on her chin and gently tilted her lips up to meet his. He simply loved how she curled into the kiss.

She was ginning as though she knew a secret that he did not when she pulled back. "Former lovers huh?"

The confusion came first, quickly followed by mortification. That was certainly not a phrase any man wanted to hear after a night of what he thought to be very passionate and very ardent lovemaking. He ran his free hand over his face; his other hand was wrapped around her still bare waist.

"Was it that obvious?"

Lena shrugged casually. "When you've been with men like I have, you learn to tell the difference between a man's first and his tenth."

He felt a stab of, what exactly? Jealousy? Irritation? Just how many men had she been with before him? He pushed it aside as irrelevant and instead chose to focus on another pressing matter. He'd been caught in a lie and he needed to own up to it.

"Yes. I lied. I'm sorry. Can you forgive my deception?"

Lena smiled and kissed his chest. "It's forgiven. And in all honesty, apart from our duel, you never boasted of other lovers. I just assumed."

There was no stopping the grin that spread across his face. "That good at it am I?"

She groaned. "A conceited you is not the you I like best."

He tugged her closer. "Then I shall strive to remain humble."

"Hmm, you may strive," she said pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as he ran his hand down her still bare spine. "But you will fail splendidly… especially after a night like tonight."

To his utter delight, she rolled on top of him giving him a most spectacular view. His hands fell to her hips. She leaned down to claim his lips in a kiss, her chest sliding over his.

"And we have many nights like tonight," she purred. "I think I'd like to amend my statement from earlier. I do like a conceited you best, but only when you are in bed with me."

"Well then…" he tugged her hips forward and was very pleased with the little gasp of pleasure she gave. "I will aim to please you."

The words barely left his mouth before her lips latched onto his once more.

1951, District of Kursk Oblast, USSR

Wrong

Would it be wrong to kiss

Seeing I feel like this

Would it be wrong to try

Lena's sultry alto voice blended perfectly with the piano. From the moment she arrived at the party, she had the full attention of the Polkovnik and she made sure only he had her attention. When she sang, she locked eyes with him and sang only to him. When she danced, she danced only with him. She accepted drinks only from him; she smiled only for him.

Wrong

Would it be wrong to stay

Here in your arms this way

Under this starry sky

Little King was around somewhere trying to dig for information, find out what he could before Lena had to… but Lena pretended that she was alone. She had to; it was the only way she could get through this. She knew one look at Little King and her resolve would crumble.

If it is wrong

Then why were you sent to me

Why am I content to be

With you forever…

Meri. She was doing this for Meri. She had to remind herself of that. She did this so that one day Meri wouldn't have to.

So

When I need you so much

And I have waited so long

It must be right

It can't be wrong

Lena left the performance area with the assistance of the Polkovnik. She placed her hand in his and allowed him to sweep her into another dance as the piano carried on without her. She paid no mind as the Polovnik's hand came to rest low on the curve of her back. Instead, she let her hand curl at the base of his neck and she toyed with the tender skin there.

He spoke no French and she no Russian—or so he thought—but his eyes said all he needed to say. He wanted her; she could feel just how much while they danced. Not just yet, she thought. Little King needed more time. Perhaps there was still a chance…

Instead, she allowed the Polkovnik to pull her away from the party where she gave him a private concert. She sang softly in his ear; her ruby lips barely brushing the skin. His hands took full advantage of their private setting, sliding and gliding over the red satin of her dress as it followed every curve of her body. Her hair had been curled and gathered to one side in an intricate braid, so his lips could easily find the exposed skin of her neck. His fingers dipped to the sensitive flesh found in the low V of her neckline.

She permitted him his fun for a moment and then she pulled back. She wiped the lip stain from his mouth and led him back to the party where she took another glass of wine and they shared another dance.

She tried, oh she tried to glean the information from him; all she needed was a name. But the Polkovnik was not a talker, neither to her nor to his comrades. He wanted only one thing from her, and she began to doubt that he would give her anything in return. Normally, this would be when she would seek out Little King and give the signal that the mission was a flop. But when she looked for him, she could not find him, and the Polkovnik did not like her attention straying from him. He pulled her roughly against his body and forcefully turned her chin so she looked into his eyes.

"Eet ees time," he said.

With one nod to a comrade, the party began to disperse. Words of farewell, few they were, were exchanged, belongings were gathered, and a leaden knot began to form in Lena's stomach. The musicians all left. The drinks were put away. Even Lena's own unfinished wine was taken from her hands as the Polkovnik began to lead her upstairs, his hand slowly tightening around her wrist. The staircase seemed to climb for miles, each step more difficult to take than the one before.

Meri. Meri. She was doing this for Meri. She was doing this to give Meri the life she deserved, a life better than the one she was forced into, a life where she would never have to know the cruelties of men, even if that was a life without her.

When they reached the landing, the Polkovnik opened the first door on the right. Lena caught a glimpse of a large bed opposite the door; she looked away and down the mile-long staircase. At first she could not see him, but Little King was there. His hands were fisted at his side, his knuckles white with strain. His eyes, dark and heavy, were guilt-ridden. Lena saw the look for what it was, an apology.

I'm sorry. I failed.

Lena met his gaze and tried to send an apology of her own. "Andrà tutto bene," she whispered.

The Polkovnik grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside the room. The door closed behind her and he pushed her against it. His lips attacking hers more vigorously than they had before. Lena struggled to catch her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. Finally, she managed to twist out of his arms and put a few steps between them.

"*Attendez, s'il vous plaît."

"No," the Polkovnik replied with a guttural cry. "You weel give me vat I vas promised."

He grabbed her arms and pulled her to him, kissing her forcefully once more. Lena tried to be compliant; she tried to force all thought away. She tried to remember why she was doing this, but all she saw was the look on Little King's face. It brought bitter tears to her eyes. She broke free once more.

"No, no I can't. *Mi dispiace. S'il vous plaît. Nyet." She mixed her languages, hoping to gain some ground between them.

The Polkovnik did not relent. He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her into the wall behind him. She cried out, her head ringing with pain. The Polkovnik threatened more violence as he grabbed the hem of her dress and began to tear it creating a split up the center. His hand dug into her thigh.

Lena continued to fight and struggle against him. She hit and she scratched at whatever she could reach. She didn't know why she fought so hard, she never had before. "You did what you had to in order to survive," Little King's words echoed in her mind. Could she survive this way? Could she survive if she was compliant? Was surviving the same thing as living?

Lena managed to get a good scratch across his face, her nails digging up flesh and drawing blood. The Polkovnik cried out and released his hold on her. The reprieve was short-lived. Lena took a step towards the door but the Polkovnik grabbed her arm and spun her around. Then he slapped her so hard she fell to the floor while a metallic taste filled her mouth. The Polkovnik loomed over her, straight fury on his face. He pulled an ornamental dagger from his waistband, and Lena knew the fight was over.

The door opened with a bang behind her.

"Vat is dis?" the Polkovnik asked.

Someone moved behind Lena, she didn't dare turn her eyes from the Polkovnik to see who; they helped her to her feet. The Polkovnik issued a string of Russian curses that Lena couldn't comprehend. Lena's helper stepped up beside her and she finally saw who it was.

Little King stood before her, looking more righteously vengeful and more Kingly than she had ever seen him before. He had a cut above his eye that looked to be swelling before her, a busted lip, and his clothes were torn and askew. He looked as though there were a hundred things he wanted to say to her, but he only had time for one.

"*Correre."

Then he lightly pushed her towards the door while he turned and lunged at the Polkovnik's waist tackling him to the ground. Little King sprung back onto his feet.

"Go!" he ordered, not looking away from the Polkovnik. Lena ran.

She tumbled out of the room and down the stairs. Her torn dress dragging behind her and tangling around her feet. She tripped and tumbled down the last few steps. Any pain she should have felt was numbed by the adrenaline racing through her body and driving her forward. The house had a very different feel now. It was quiet, eerily quiet. As Lena made her way into the front sitting room she saw why.

The furniture had all been upturned. Lamps had been knocked over. There had been a struggle down here as well; she wondered why. Lena saw the first body as she rounded the corner. She cried out and jumped back, tripping over her dress again. But the body did not move; its lifeless eyes stared at nothing.

Heart racing and hands shaking, Lena struggled to regain her feet. She found the second body near the first; she turned away, unable to look at them and unable to progress to the front door. She looked for another way out. Above her, she could still hear the fight raging on. She stumbled in her efforts to walk; somewhere somehow her heel had broken.

She made her way into the kitchen, having recalled seeing a door to a back terrace there. The third and fourth bodies were there too, however. Lena fell down behind the table and cried, overwhelmed and frightened by it all.

As she sat there, the pain began to creep in, withering its way in like a snake. She knew sitting was a bad idea, but she was too afraid to move. She could hear the distant thuds of bodies hitting a solid object as the fight continued upstairs, and she wondered how much longer Little King would last. She had once thought him to be a fighter greater than any other, the best swordsman in Narnia, but how much greater must the Polkovnik be if the fight still continued?

It was only then that Lena realized how great a fighter Little King must truly be. For while she had been resisting the Polkovnik alone, Little King had taken on at least four different enemies and defeated them. And still, he fought the Polkovnik. Lena didn't have to ask why he would fight so hard; she already knew the answer.

Her.

It was because of her. Little King fought for her as fiercely as he ever had. He fought for her when he recruited her, when she was too blind and too frightened to see it. He fought for her with Daniels, when Daniels didn't believe she was the right choice. And he fought for her now when her—for lack of a better word—honor was stake. And Lena knew, without question or doubt, that Little King, no, that Edmund Pevensie would die for her, and after already having faced at least four other skilled combatants, he likely would.

Lena looked at the floor across from her, where her handbag lay. It had fallen from its hook during the fight. Its contents lay spilled on the floor: a tube of ruby-red lip stain, a bottle of perfume, surprisingly still intact, a pack of Woodbine cigarettes, and her small, but sharp knife. It wouldn't be much, but the best swordsman in Narnia wouldn't need much.

Lena pulled the knife from its protective covering and cut away the trailing part of her dress first; it would do no good if she tripped going up the stairs. Then, she kicked off her broken-heeled shoes—a woman couldn't be expected to run in those things—and began the long trek up the stairs again; the sounds of fighting became louder.

There was a loud bang that Lena swore shook the whole house. She flung herself against the wall. From the room above her, she could hear the taunting voice of the Polkovnik. She couldn't decipher every word, but she caught a few: fight, futile, dead, whore. Lena could hear nothing from Little King. The Polkovnik's words rang in her ears. Dead. Dead. Dead.

If Little King was dead, then she would be next. Only, she knew her death would not come swiftly, but she would go down fighting the same as he.

Lena continued her silent trek up the stairs. When she reached the landing, the door was still open and the Polkovnik had his back towards it; he didn't see her standing there with the knife in hand.

"You have a good eye and good aim. Trust in that, and you will not miss," Little King's words from training played through her mind.

Lena knew going straight for flesh would be her easiest way in, and the only bit of flesh she saw on the Polkovnik, was the tender flesh at the nape of the neck. She adjusted her grip on the knife, took in a steadying breath, and then swiftly and silently struck.

At first, nothing much happened other than the Polkovnik stopped talking. Then a thin trickle of blood began to pool around the blade. The Polkovnik put his hands to his throat. There was a soft thud as his gun dropped to the floor. Then he dropped to his knees. This gave Lena more leverage. She placed her other hand on the pommel of the knife and pushed the blade further in. The Polkovnik began to gurgle and blood dripped from his mouth. When he turned his eyes to look up at her, they were wide with shock and fear. As his body fell to the floor, Lena pulled the knife from his neck; his blood splattered across her face, covered her hands, and pooled at her feet.

Even after the life had left his eyes, Lena continued to stare at the Polkovnik. Though her hands were shaking, she held the knife poised and ready to strike him again. She would not let him take her. She would not let him win.

She slowly became aware of a strange murmuring sound. There was something vaguely familiar about it. As though it were from a distant world or another life.

"Ileana? Ileana?"

She looked away from the Polkovnik and saw Little King. He looked to be in far worse shape than the last time she saw him. The cut above his eye was bigger, definitely swelling, and still bleeding. He had blood trickling from his ear as well. And he was looking right at her, arms stretched out towards her. She blinked. He was talking to her. He was alive!

"Ileana, put the knife down. It's all right now. Put the knife down."

Knife? What knife? She followed the direction of his eyes to her hands. There was a bloody knife in them, and there was a dead body at her feet. She jumped, startled, dropped the knife, and stumbled back blinking out of her daze. Little King stepped over the body and came to her, gently touching her arms.

"Ileana? We need to leave." He spoke louder than was necessary, nearly shouting; Lena didn't know why.

Lena nodded and allowed him to lead her out of the room. He descended the stairs first, frequently looking over his shoulder at her to make sure she was still there even though his hand never left hers. They stopped by a room Lena hadn't seen during the party where Little King picked up a pack of papers and shoved them in his satchel. Then they turned for the front door. Lena froze when she saw the bodies again.

"It's all right, Lena; we have to keep moving."

"Someone will find them. They will know it was us. They'll find us." She sounded delirious even to her own ears.

"Good thinking." Little King didn't seem to mind her deliriousness. He looked around. "This way."

He pulled her into the kitchen. He left her standing at the table while he went to the stove. He fumbled with all the knobs and a faint hissing sound emerged. He looked around again.

"We need a light, something to make a spark."

Meanwhile, Lena picked up her bag and all its contents from the floor. She absentmindedly reached for a cigarette and lighter. It was only after she put the cigarette to her lips that she noticed Little King looking at her.

"Sorry. I forget you don't like this." She went to put it out.

"Wait, tonight it will work."

He walked over with a slight grimace on his face and a limp in his step. He held out his hand in askance. Lena handed over the cigarette and watched as he too placed it to his lips. He took a drag with the ease of one who was not unfamiliar with smoking, but he made a face as he exhaled.

"I don't see what anyone gets from this." He passed the cigarette back.

Lena shrugged. "I suppose not everyone does." She took one more drag before handing it back to him. He did the same, then he set it down on the table, still lit.

"Come on, we need to leave."

He took her hand once more and led her back to the front door. She carefully stepped around the bodies as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and they stepped out into the crisp night air.

*Translations

Attendez s'il vous plaît: wait, please

Mi dispiace. S'il vous plaît. Nyet: I'm sorry. Please. No. (Italian/French/Russian)

Correre: run

Originally this chapter was going to be much longer, with the escape from the USSR to follow this. But it had to be split into two chapters. So their escape will follow in a chapter all on its own.