❄ to kill a queen } saffron

❄ to kill a queen } saffron Dec 19, 2013 3:04:44 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Dec 19, 2013 3:04:44 GMT -5

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susan peverell

❄ ❄ ❄

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It is a quarter past one in the morning, and your breath looks like smoke. You close the door carefully and pray that by morning the footsteps you leave in the snow will be covered by fresh ice. It was easy to lie to your brothers - you spent the first thirteen years of her life lying to Lucy, did you not? The complications came in getting the letter to Saffron Lowe. You sealed it with one of the red wax stamps in your father's untouched writing desk and signed your name in dark ink. There is no way of knowing if the stern-faced Peacekeeper passed it on, or even if the child will arrive, but you continue through the darkness as though you spend each night wandering around District Twelve.

You prefer it this way: it's silent and deserted, and your every footfall carries with it enough disturbance to mean something. It's been a long time since you felt as though you meant something. The flask in your pocket is empty, but you reach for it anyway and press it to your lips. A single drop lands on your tongue. It's not enough, and you thirst for more. (It doesn't matter.) Within minutes you arrive in the dirty alleyway behind the Justice Building. You let your fingers trail along the wall, carving patterns in the coal dust that clings to every surface. Moments pass, but the tiny girl appears just as instructed. You are glad, for climbing in the window was looking like an unfavorable option.

As soon as your frantic eyes take in the Victor of the 65th Hunger Games, your hands are reaching out for her. They do not hold her in an embrace - although the night is cold, you have business to attend to. Your fingers clutch her wrist, firm and urgent. And then you are running, dragging her behind you down the passageway and into the shadows. When the distance between you and the officials no doubt sleeping in the offices has widened sufficiently, you stop, breathing heavily. "Miss Lowe," you say, your voice steady and as brave as you can possibly manage. (This girl was the very last person to see your baby sister alive. She was her final friend, her last hope, and her killer. She gave her a kingdom and took it away.) "I'm Susan Peverell. I believe you knew Lucy?"

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❄ to kill a queen } saffron Jan 11, 2014 22:59:08 GMT -5

Post by ✨ zozo. on Jan 11, 2014 22:59:08 GMT -5

[presto]

♕ saffron lowe ♕

At night, everything becomes worse. Peacekeepers knock at your train compartment doors (somehow they knew I wouldn't be sleeping - I wonder if the others ever did) and slip you mysterious letters without another word. I sit and stare at it, struggling to rip it open with one hand (everything is harder without the ease of my other set of fingers - there's feeling in the Capitol contraption, but precise movement is harder) and eyes hungrily feast over the scrawled message. I don't need a second to think about my next actions - I simply get up and move: one slow, mechanical step at a time. Tip-toeing past their train compartments was difficult, but I'm small and silent and for a brief moment I was back at home again, before all of this glorified terror, creeping through silent homes and taking in the quiet.

The freezing winter air is somehow comforting. It bites against my skin and I don't bother to try and warm myself - I deserve this. (I deserve all of it.) Like the fog around this place my eyes hang heavy, sleep-deprived and empty of all colour that once lit them up with wonder. I wonder if Lucy ever toddled past here, small and unafraid of anything and most importantly alive - and the thoughts become too much and I have to stop and breathe, heaving winter's heavy heart into my lungs. (I can almost see her dancing with delight, wandering down the street, floating through the air my breath expels into the moonlit night.) Her memories sigh and her soul returns home, and I close my eyes and begin to let her go.

Although she does not want to leave. Because suddenly I am awake - only I'm not in my compartment on the train being shaken awake from a terrible dream. I'm still here, in the darkness of Twelve, being dragged along by a tall, blonde figure who scurries along the paths and my lips part to scream - but all I let out is a sigh.

"Lucy?"

"Miss Lowe," the girl pants - it could be Lucy, it could be: although Lucy is frozen in time, in my soul, in my memories. And apparently, frozen in glimmers of this girl's face. "I'm Susan Peverell. I believe you knew Lucy?"

Why of course. Her sister. I had heard of them - we discussed home back in the forests before they stole her away for good. But I had always imagined them smiling, happy, playing with her with bright eyes and brighter faces. Never did I think I would stand so close to them, almost as pale as the ghosts that follow my every move or the snow that cushions my feet as it falls to the floor. Missing brightness, missing life. (Missing Lucy.)

"I-" (But there are no words. None at all.)

"She was the bravest girl I ever knew."

(Except those.)