65th Reaping [D12]

"Ten... nine... eight..."
Skittish footsteps fill the silence. Bare feet upon wood, the hurried opening of doors, a giggle from somewhere you cannot see. The world blurs - your house, a sanctuary filled with wilting flowers and stacked firewood and partially knitted scarves, fades. What you are left with is another world; one of opportunities and shadows, hiding spaces and dangerous corners. A smile snatches away the concern etched into your face, and you run frantically down the hallway, golden curls streaming out behind you.

"Seven... six... five..."
It is Susan that counts, her voice clear and lyrical. Last night, once she had pulled the covers up to your chin, she kissed your forehead. "It'll be okay," she insisted, before you could speak. You smiled, and nodded, and believed her. She lingered by the doorway as she left, as though something else was on her mind, but she didn't say it. Perhaps another day you will press her on it, but it hardly matters. You breathe quietly as you duck your head through the doorway of your parent's room and close the door behind you.

"Four... three... two..."
Hardly daring to move, you inch across the floor and pray that the wood does not creak underfoot. You hear a curse of frustration from Edmund - he never was quite as good at this game as you. You move to stand before the great oak wardrobe, running your shaking fingers along it's marvellous carvings. When you were small, Mama and Papa would usher you away from the room whenever you came close, but today Mama is more absent than present, and your Father has been gone so long his face has faded in your memories. Careful not to disturb it's contents, you swing open the heavy door and step inside.

"One... ready or not, here I come."
You make a point of not shutting yourself in - although you are sweet natured and altogether too trusting, you are not foolish enough to trap yourself in the darkness. (You wouldn't tell your siblings, but in truth you are just a little bit afraid of the unknown.) With bitten fingernails you brush the heavy winter coats you keep stored here and fold yourself up as small as you possibly can. Knees pressed to your chin and the heavy scent of your father all around you, you wait. It is only after a long moment that you realise your shoulder doesn't press against the back panel where you think it should, and the mothballs do not make a sound when you sweep them away.

Without thinking, you reach out to touch the wood, but your delicate hands fall upon empty space. You notice your heartbeat quicken in your chest and your body stiffen, unsure. And then you get to your feet and pull one of the oversized coats over your tiny frame before venturing deeper into the wardrobe. You are sure that the thick stone wall of the house should inhabit the space you now stand in, but still you are able to take another step, and another, until you know you are in an entirely impossible place. A reeling mind does not accept this, and instead you search for some logic. Failing that, you take another step, and then another, trailing your hand along the wall and becoming entirely engulfed in the darkness.

"Hello?" you whisper, before you remember the first rule of hide and seek. You mustn't speak, you remember a young Peter telling you, with his finger pressed against taught lips. Only a toddler, you listened, spellbound. In the years that followed you remained captivated by the brave and brilliant elder brother who so flawlessly took the place of your father and remembered to lock the doors at night. Your voice echoed around the tunnel, but nobody replied.

After a while, the darkness began to feel far too heavy upon your shoulders. "Is anybody there?" you attempted, one final whisper falling upon absent ears. "Where does this go?" Biting your lip, you wait, but nothing happens. Defeated, you turn back, trailing your feet as you go and promising yourself that you'll return to the mysterious tunnel, perhaps with a lantern next time, to find the other end. Of course, all paths must lead to somewhere. You emerge breathless and dusty, with cobwebs in your head.

"Goodness, Lucy, wherever have you been?"
"Oh, Susan! The wardrobe, it goes on forever!"
"I would have thought better of you, ignoring our calling!"
"I didn't hear you, honestly."
"It's reaping day, you know that. I understand you're scared but-"
"I'm not scared, Susan. There's a world inside the wardrobe, I'm sure of it."
"Stop this nonsense at once. You don't have time to change."
"I'm not lying!"
"Come on."

With that, your sister grabs your wrist and tugs you toward the door. You knew all along it was reaping morning, but surely the minutes you spent wandering in the uncharted lands did not fill the hours you had begun with? A glance at the clock as you are shoved outside and down the garden path confirms that children will already be getting into lines and peering fearfully at the bowl of names destined to decide their fate. As you arrive, there is no time for final embraces or heartfelt wishes. You catch your elder sister mutter, "It'll be okay," once more, but you think perhaps she is speaking to herself rather than you.

All at once, the morning turns from one of hide and seek and smiles and porridge and morning post to one of sour glances and a heavy feeling in the very bottom of your stomach. The expressions on the faces of your distant siblings - all of them safe, this year - suggest your mind should be occupied with the upcoming reaping, but for the first year since Peter turned twelve you do not fret. They are safe. And of course the more pressing matter of what could be anything within the walls of your very own home consumes your mind.

You are distracted until your name is called. "Lucy Peverell." There is a long second of confusion as your head snaps around, rosy cheeks suddenly pale as winter's snow. Your eyes - blue and already wide as the ocean - grow bigger and what feels like your final breath catches in your throat. It takes a long moment for your mind to accept what it has heard. Those words, spoken so innocently by the escort and read without meaning from the paper are your entire world. And just like that, they make each and every person you love a liar. Whichever way you look at things, you know that from now, they aren't going to be okay.

You know it was easy for them to whisper reassurances into your hair. For your mother to tell you you were beautiful and for your late father to hoist you up onto his shoulders and declare that you ruled the world. It felt like it - from there you could see farther than ever before, the tiny four year old Lucy allowing her eyes to absorb the district. From up there, it certainly seemed like everything. Now, ten years later, it feels like you've just begun to fall. From whatever throne of words-through-gritted-teeth and the pledges you're sure they meant to keep, you're tumbling.

In a final attempt at being strong, you lift you eyes to watch the countless people who are no doubt thankful for the calling of your time. Without even having to try, you know you can't meet the eyes of your family - Peter, Susan and Edmund, for it feels as though they holding onto you from where they stand, digging their nails into your flesh and trying to hold you back. You're falling, though. And the harder they hang on, the more it hurts. Defiantely, you lift your chin and make your way up onto the stage, biting your lip in a bid to suppress the tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

(They said, they told you that you were the Queen, but not in this world. Not anymore.)


“And so for a time it looked as if all the adventures were coming to and end; but that was not to be.”

(Lucy accepts her position as tribute.)