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Peter spurs his horse. His family is ahead of him―he can see them through the trees―just a little faster, or they'll leave him behind.
"Wait for me!" he calls. "Come on, Tarva, c'mon, you can run faster than this." Slowly, oh-so-excruciatingly-slowly, the distance closes until he can almost reach out and touch the others. Susan, her hair streaming in the breeze―Lucy ahead, impatient to catch the elusive Stag―and last and nearest, Edmund.
Ed! Peter hardly dares look at him lest his brother vanish. But no―Edmund is there, real, whole, and solid, the blood warm in his veins, dark hair tousled from the ride and eyes merry with some jest.
"Brother! Brother mine!" cries Peter, reaching out to him, but Edmund can't―won't―doesn't hear him, and as the elder King's fingers close on his brother's sleeve, it crumbles into dust in his fingers.
"Nooo! Edmund!" But the others vanish, and the forest is dark with looming shadows.
"Selfisssh," they hiss with many creaky, watery, furry voices. "Selfish, selfish. How dare you leave them, little king? You were their rock. They trusssted you. Selfisssh."
A shadow rises up from the multitude and Peter cries out. "Mum!"
Her voice is cold. "You said you would look after them. You promised."
"Mum! I'm sorry―I tried―I'm sorry―" But she is gone.
Another voice, panicky. "What have you done?"
"Susan―I didn't!"
"Peter, please?" and her lip wobbles, so very young and innocent.
"Lucy!"
"I protected you." Last and most cutting, Edmund's shade. "I saved your life so many times, and this is how you repay me?" His lips curled in a sneer. "Guess I wasn't the real traitor after all."
"Edmund! Eddie! No! No! Nooo! Don't leave me!"
"Peter, wake up. You're dreaming again." A hand jostles his shoulder, dragging him up from the depths of the nightmare. "Peter. It's a dream. Wake up."
He opens his eyes, and oh! what blessed relief to see the familiar face bending over him, dark hair tousled from sleep and eyes worried.
"I'm here," says the beloved voice. "Go back to sleep." Peter's panic eases as the other heartbeat comes closer and snuggles against his chest. Together they breathe in, together they breathe out, and peace washes over the High King of Narnia as he sinks once more into oblivion.
Peter is still asleep when I wake, even though the sunlight streams through the curtains, and I hate to wake him. He's been sleeping poorly again, and I had to shake him out of nightmares more than once last night. What is he dreaming of? I wonder, knowing he'll tell me when he's ready.
He stirs and opens his eyes, smiling lazily at me. "Hi."
"Well, aren't you a merry sunshine this morning." I yawn.
He frowns, raising a hand to my cheek. "Did I wake you last night?"
"Once or twice. Some dream that must have been."
"Oh, D . . ."
"Don't call me that!" I scowl and push his hand away. Mornings. Why can't they be scheduled later in the day?
He rolls over and pushes himself up off the bed, going to the window and looking out. "Let's run away. I'm going to go crazy if I spend another day cooped up in here with that Telmarine senator and those squealing princesses. Lucy and Susan will be the death of me yet."
We're all restless with the snow finally melting and spring coming on. "We could steal something from the kitchens and make a day of it. Ride back early tomorrow morning?"
He turns, and there is a very un-Peterly smirk on his face. "Let's go north."
The staff is well-versed in our ways, and I talk Touille, the large Rat chef who runs the kitchens, out of a saddlebag of food without too much trouble. The Dryads look the other way, and Flintbeard, the head groom, winks at us when we ask if the coast is clear.
"No sign of the General, if that's what ye mean," the Dwarf says. Peter has already mounted Tarva, his fine Calormene stallion, the saddlebags behind him, and I swing up on to Glund.
"Our thanks, Flintbeard," says Peter. "Expect us before dawn tomorrow."
With furtive looks around, half-expecting Oreius to descend on us with a sound scolding, we clop out of the barn and make our escape through the main gate.
"No escort," says Peter to the Centaurs at the gate, and his tone brooks no argument.
"Your Majesties," they reply, saluting, and we are off.
"Let's go all the way," I yell over the wind as we turn north and urge our horses to gallop. Perhaps I can distract Peter from his nightmares―and his memories. Both of us have too many memories.
"Past the marshes?"
"Yes!"
We kick our horses and race on.
We reach the Shribble just as the sun is setting, and look for a place to camp out.
"I don't see anything I like," says Peter, the tetchiness coming over him again.
"What about there?" I say, pointing across the river. "That hollow there, under the cottonwood tree. It looks perfect, and there won't be Giants this far south this time of year."
Peter hesitates. "I don't know . . ."
"We can take turns watching. Just like old times?"
For answer, he flicks his reins and splashes into the water.
I must have nodded off after dinner, because I wake suddenly, cold and stiff and unable to move. The sun is long set, but the stars are bright here on the edge of the moors, and when I strain my eyes downward, flexing my arms, it becomes apparent that I'm tied to a tree, my sword and dagger gone. It must be same cottonwood we camped under, or one very like it; there aren't many trees here. Ah, yes―there's the embers of our campfire still smoldering. No sign of Peter . . . but I don't panic. Peter will come for me soon. All I have to do is sit tight and wait.
I wait. I watch the dying embers of the campfire. I listen to the little night sounds: the wind sighing through the grass, the chirping of crickets, the sleepy twitter of a moorfowl. My feet go numb and I squirm against the ropes, wishing I could scratch my nose and adjust the way my tunic's rucked up between my back and the tree trunk. Just a little longer now―what is taking Peter so long?
Ah, now there's a footstep!
"Peter? Is that you?"
Thud. Thud. It comes closer.
"Peter?" My voice is suddenly high and quavery. "Peter, where are you?"
A booming sound―laughter?―echoes above my head and my heart leaps into my throat.
"Lost someone, have you, little man?" says a deep voice, and a monstrous face leers down at me from above and behind. Giant.
He doesn't know. He doesn't know who I am.
Peter, I try to scream. Look out! But I can't make a sound.
"Ain't you a tasty little morsel. And I thought we'd be having pony again. Obblegorb! Polyfemmus! Come lookee what I find!"
The tree quivers against my back as the other two Giants come thumping up. One's whistling a tuneless song and I bite my lip as the words come to mind. It's about the only song the Giants have―they sing it on the hunt or when marching into war. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.
With stumping stride in pomp and pride
We come to thump and floor ye . . .
But even that thought can't distract me from the conversation being held above my head.
"Mite stringy, by the looks of 'im."
"Them young males is always tough. Best toss it in a stew and let it simmer."
I must keep calm. I must keep calm. Calm and clever. There will be time enough for panic later, after Peter comes to get me out―but what if he's already been captured? No. No, I can't think that way. He will come get me. All I have to do is stay calm, watch for an opening, and trust him to find me.
"But I don't want to!" whines the Giant called Obblegorb. "I allus have to clean them and man's such a finicky job. Messy, too. Can't we just roast the pony tonight and starve this one a day so I don't get uck all over my hands?"
"Fine, then, have it your way," growls the first Giant. "But you can carry the pony, since you're so precious fond of it. The man's going in my bag."
I get just a glimpse of a jagged blade in the darkness and I hold my breath―please Aslan. Then I'm falling stiffly away from the tree into a huge hand, and suddenly I find voice to scream.
"PETERRR!"
"Oh, shut up, you little bugger," and a deafening blow lands on the side of my head.
It's too dark to tell whether my eyes are open or shut when I swim into consciousness again. Hush, I think to the panic that wants to rise in my throat. Hush. Stay calm. Take stock of the situation. I wriggle my fingers and toes and cautiously turn my head. My hands are still bound by my sides, and my legs are tied together, but there don't seem to be any broken bones. I'm lying on something scratchy, dusty, and yielding―hay, or grass maybe. I hold my breath and listen the way Oreius taught us, stilling myself and opening my senses to hear the smallest sound.
Nothing. I can hear nothing, only a faint ringing in my ears and the rush of blood that is my own heartbeat. Beyond that is silence. Utter, overwhelming silence.
The panic rises up then and I black out for a little bit. I have no way to tell how long it's been when I come back. A minute? An hour? A day? All is dark; not even the skitter of a rat breaks the silence. I decide I must be in the Giants' cellar, from the musty smells of dirt and hay and old potatoes, and it must be the middle of the night, though I would have expected to hear them snoring.
Where is Peter? Was he also captured? Does he know where I am? I cannot answer any of these questions. I must wait, wait for morning and a little light and an opportunity. This is hardly the worst dungeon I've been in, and there will be an opportunity. There must be.
I think about the first time Peter and I were captured by Giants, barely a month into our reign. Back home, Giants were a nursery legend, a story to make children behave, but wild things walk here on the borders of Narnia, truer than any nightmare. By now I should know better than to think that an empty horizon can be anything more than an illusion of safety.
My mind strays to the girls, back home in the Cair. Are they safe? Oreius is probably furious, but at least he's with them―unless he's already mustered the army and set out to find us. I promised Su I would be at her tea party tomorrow . . . today, and right now it looks unlikely. She wanted me to meet her new friend, one of the visiting princesses. I dread the disappointed look in Su's eyes.
Should never have come this far north. My first duty is to take care of Peter, and it was irresponsible to suggest crossing the Shribble on a lark. I twitch my fingers again, trying to reach the knots, but it's no use.
The tears start then, trickling down the sides of my face into my ears―oh, why do I have to cry so easily? Ever since I was a child, and I've always hated the weakness. Peter ribs me about it, but then he always tenderly brushes them away for me. Peter.
There have been worse dungeons, but always we were together in our chains, encouraging each other as we awaited the stewpot―or the executioner. Peter is the one who begins the litanies, and I finish them. Peter is the one who comes up with hare-brained schemes, I the one who points out the flaws. Peter is my rock, and without him I am lost.
Aslan, great Lion, I pray at last, not quite daring to speak the words aloud lest anyone is listening, not wanting to hear my wavering voice alone in the dark. Watch over us. Guard us, protect us, and―please―bring us home again.
I close my eyes, feeling the liquid pooling in my ears, and a draft of warmth stirs the chill. Is there a spicy, golden scent threaded into the dank stillness, or am I imagining it? So cold. So dark. So maddeningly silent.
Something touches my arm, and I scream, thinking it's one of the Giants, come to check up on me, or perhaps worse, one of their foul pets, nosing at tomorrow's dinner. My eyes fly open, and more tears blur my vision. But this time it's tears of relief, for there―there he is. His jerkin is ripped in several places, blood oozes from a long scratch on his cheek, and the glowing brand he holds aloft leaves most of his face in deep shadow, but oh, it's Peter. My Peter.
I try to reach out to him, forgetting that my arms are still bound. His lips move, with a questioning look in his eyes, but he's whispering too softly and I shake my head.
He bends closer and repeats himself, but still all I hear is the same faint ringing. Oh. Oh no. Horror and dread billow over me. Aslan. No. Please.
It's not silent.
I'm deaf.
AN: With thanks especially to WillowDryad for her writing and for welcoming us, and to OldFashionedGirl95 for lending us the prayer Edmund says. The Giant song is taken from C. S. Lewis's own Narnian Suite.
What do you think? We have a big twist planned for the next chapter, so leave a review, please!
