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I fix my eyes on Peter's lips, trying to decipher his words. They are ruddy-white in the faint glow, shaping familiar yet incomprehensible patterns, and I shake my head in mute despair.
"I can't—can't hear you."
His eyes widen and he drops to his knees beside me; I shiver as he runs his free hand over me, checking for any other injuries, but I manage to hide my wince when he prods the bruise on my hip. "I'm fine, Peter," I say, unable to hear even my own voice. "It's just these ropes." I squirm. It's nice that he's so concerned for me, but it'd be even nicer if he'd untie me first and worry about the bruises later.
He looks guilty, as if he's heard me, and draws his dagger to saw at the ropes binding my arms. It's clumsy work, holding the makeshift torch aloft with one hand, and he's just gotten through the last twist of hemp line when he stiffens, his lips thinning.
I hold my breath, wondering what he's heard. A moment later, I feel it—deep, thumping vibrations overhead. Giant footsteps. My eyes meet Peter's: twin glances of horror in the darkness. Then he drops the torch, picks me up bodily in his arms, and runs.
I hold on with both hands around his neck as he carries me bridal-style. Does he have any real plan? I can't see where he's going at all. He feints, dodging left and then right; then he drops to his knees and sets me down. We're in a corner; the footstep vibrations have for the moment paused. Peter fumbles his hands down my legs until he reaches the rope binding my ankles. A careful stroke and the loop falls away.
I grope for his hand in the dark and stagger to my feet. His other hand strokes my cheek once and then he turns to lead me forward. I don't know how he can see to move, but he seems to move unerringly in the dark. Five steps. Pause. Five more steps. Pause. Then we freeze at the thum . . . thum. There's a shake in the air and Peter jerks.
I count to a hundred slowly in my head as we stand there motionless, listening, waiting. The vibrations have ceased, and Peter must not hear anything because he tugs me forward and we make our cautious way on until Peter stops short.
There's a faint light above, here, and dimly I make out a colossal stair stretching up before us, a yard of empty space yawning between each step. Peter squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. We can do this. We are together, and Aslan with us.
I breathe a prayer and then, one precarious step at a time, keeping firm hold on each other, we begin the climb. Two. Three. Boost Peter up over the edge. Pull myself up, with his help. Take two paces forward. Pause. No vibrations. Boost Peter up.
Without even so much as a whisper to reassure me, I have to depend on my other senses to follow Peter, tracking his movements carefully and depending on his strong grip each time to get me up out of the silence of my lonely step and onto the next. On the fourth step I trip as he pulls himself up and for a moment the vast understair darkness yawns terrifyingly before me. I try to scream, but nothing penetrates the silence all around me.
I flail, panicky, and nearly sob with relief when our hands connect in the darkness. Slowly, agonizingly, he pulls me up over the edge and we lie flat, catching our breath and waiting to see if my yell attracted any attention.
There are thirteen steps, riserless every one, and that is not the only time we nearly fall. At last we reach the top, where the light is stronger but still dim, and I can make out the irregular shape of the stone the Giants use for a cellar door. Perhaps the restless Giant earlier replaced it carelessly, or perhaps it simply doesn't quite cover the opening; at any rate there is a gap between the rock and the earthen rim.
With a look, we understand each other, and Peter jumps to catch the edge. I boost, he pulls himself up; with a scramble he disappears through the gap. A moment later his hands appear and with a firm clasp he pulls me after him.
There remain only three sleeping Giants to creep past, but the pale pre-dawn seeps in through chinks in the walls and after the vault-like darkness below we can see well enough—or so I think, until I put my foot down wrong on the rutted ground and gasp with pain. Peter's hand tightens on mine, and despite the chilly air it is slick with sweat.
The Giants are lumpishly huge. Obblegorb, the smallest, sleeps flat on his back, his mouth open and a long disgusting thread of saliva trailing down the side of his face. The others, larger, sleep curved on either side of him, their faces grotesque and pitted with filthy pores. The unnamed one who captured me stirs and rolls over, smacking his lips with some hideous dream, and the ground shakes.
The air is fetid with rancid bodies and rotten blood, and I can feel the sound waves of the snores buzzing on my face. The Giant stills again, and I take a step forward. Pain shoots up from my ankle. Sprained. The Giants' huge, old, scarred dog shifts in the corner and raises his head. That's when Peter grabs me up, throws me over his shoulder, and runs.
The door isn't quite closed, and my head bumps against the jamb as Peter squeezes through. My hands fist tighter in the fabric of his shirt, desperately hanging on. Behind us the dog gets up, sniffing curiously, and I catch my breath, silently urging Peter to hurry, hurry! But we make it through just as the dog ambles towards the door, and we are sprinting toward safety by the time he noses at the crack. I see that he is barking but doesn't seem to be able to fit through. Praise be to Aslan! Let the Giants sleep just a little longer . . .
Freedom is so close, I can taste it. We run—or rather, Peter runs and I cling to his shirt with all my might, hoping the horses are somewhere near because not even Peter can outrun a Giant. I keep looking back, expecting at any moment to feel the dread thum thum of giant footsteps as the brutes come into sight.
My heart pounds dreadfully, but Peter is tossing me onto Tarva and swinging into the saddle in front of me, and still there is no sign of the Giants. With a jerk, Peter frees the reins from the knob of rock they're twisted around and then he's leaning forward, digging his knees into the horse's side and whispering in his ear so that the fine Calormene stallion leaps forward, probably snorting. Chunks of dirt fly out behind us and I have to dig my fingers into Peter's hips to stay on.
It is only then that I notice that Glund is missing, and I hear in memory the Giant's leering voice. Pony again, it said. I'll carry the manling in my bag. An ache swells in my heart that hurts more than any of my scratches and bruises, more than the persistent ringing in my ears. Sweet Aslan, no. Glund, my loyal, spirited stallion—gone. Eaten by Giants. Because of my own foolishness.
I look back again, The air shakes with a terrifying roar, and oh no, behind us a distorted face appears in the rough window of the Giants' shack, mouth open with rage.
"Peter!" I shriek, and we flatten against Tarva's neck as he speeds forward into a dead run. I wrap my arms around Peter's waist and lock my fingers together, twisting my head back to watch.
Aslan, help. Aslan, help. Aslan, help, my mind chants in rhythm with the horse's hoofs.
Somehow, mercifully, the Giants decide not to give chase—or perhaps they're too hungover to see clearly—and the hut slowly drops back. Under my ear, Peter's thumping heartbeat slows. I find I am shaking from adrenaline.
And then, in the terrible chasm of solitude that my deafness has thrust me into, I am naked, helpless against the onslaught of my own mind's condemnation. Peter could have died. You could have died. Just like Glund. It would all be your fault. Your fault . . .
No! I never meant to put Peter in danger.
But you did, and for no reason—worse, for your own amusement. What kind of monster does that to their own . . .
Tears, hot and sudden, fill my eyes and course silently down my cheeks, and the guilty shame feels like sickness in my stomach. Aslan, forgive me! I did not choose treachery.
It is all too much to bear alone. I bury my face against Peter's back to muffle what I know must be audible sobs coming from my lips. My arms slip around his waist to hold him tightly, drawing what comfort I may from his strength though I know I have done nothing to deserve it.
But he puts his hand on top of mine and squeezes, as though wordlessly reassuring me, it's all right, I'm here, and I can feel vibrations through the muscles of his back, and I know he is talking to me, as the rumble of his voice resonates through me. Even though I cannot hear his words, I know he is telling me what he has always told me: I will always come for you, D. It's what I do. And there is nothing you can do that will ever change that, because we are family.
Tarva settles into a smooth canter and, lulled by the smooth rhythm of his stride and the large warmth of Peter under my cheek, my shuddering sobs ease and even the pit of shame and bile in my gut fades to a nagging guilt.
I dream of Susan's eyes, dark and serious. You said you'd be at my tea party. Why weren't you? I open my mouth to form an answer but nothing comes out and Susan begins to weep—
I dream that I'm dangling from Polyfemmus's hand as he leers at me; up close one of his eyes is clouded and sightless. I ate your precious High King, he gloats, and I ate your measly ponies, and now I will eat you. I struggle in his grip. Peter! I cry. Peter, help! but my voice is mute and Peter does not come and Polyfemmus raises me to his mouth—
I dream of nothingness, and I am lost in it. I bring my hand before my face, but it is not there. In its place is a wild panicky void, as if I swam too far out to sea and thought I could still touch the bottom but when I reached for it, it was gone; and I sink into the overwhelming blackness where there is no sight, no sense, no sound—not even the beating of my own heart. In the silence there is only the screaming of my mind. Selfish, selfish, it whines, and I curl into myself against its blows—
I dream of light. Into the stillness there comes a golden warmth, padding softly toward me on great paws. He speaks no words, but bends over me and breathes out a long, gentle sigh that wraps around me like a living flame that does not burn—
And then I sleep and do not dream.
It is the crackling of a fire that wakes me at last, and the cool touch of a wet cloth on my brow, and a voice—
A spark of hope igniting in me, I fight through the fog of sleep that lies thick and heavy over me, numbing my limbs and clouding my thoughts, but I am still in that nebulous state between waking and sleeping and it is a long climb up. "Peter!" I try to shout, but my tongue feels fuzzy and my mouth refuses to form the words. Am I still dreaming?
And yet—no. That voice is too real for imagining, too real to be a dream. Thank you, Aslan, I breathe silently, a poor articulation of the gratitude welling up in me, for I can hear again. I can hear the crackle of the fire and the wind in the leaves and a robin chirping its early morning song, but most importantly, I hear a beloved deep murmur so familiar that the thought of never hearing it again nearly broke my heart. It is the voice that soothes me, the voice that teases me, the voice that vowed to stand by my side forever and always find me.
Peter.
And the bass rumble of the voice I love most in all the world—next to Aslan's—talking to me as I sleep is enough to make the tears come again. Tears of relief, this time, as I begin to make out individual words. Lion. He's talking about me.
". . . what did you do to yourself?" He's dabbing with a wet cloth at my ear, where the Giant struck me, bathing away the dirt and sponging the dried blood out of my hair. "You have a lump on your head, scratches all over your arms, rope burn here—" he feathers a finger across my wrist "—not to mention the ankle you sprained in the Giants' House. And didn't you wince earlier . . .?" His warm, sword-calloused fingers peel back my tunic and push the waistband of my trousers down over my hipbone. Blast. And I thought I hid it so well.
"D," he mutters, in a tone that implies I really should know better. He traces the outline of the bruise on my hip—probably a spectacular rainbow of purple and yellow by now—but I keep my eyes closed, not ready to let him know I'm awake yet.
"You know," he muses, "I worry every day that something will happen to you, that a Giant or a Hag will carry you off for their own foul uses, and that—that would be the end." His fingers are twisting restlessly in my hair now, and his voice drops to a hoarse whisper. "Oh, D . . . I can't lose you. I wouldn't be able to bear it if anything happened to you. Not after—not after what happened to—to—" His voice breaks into a sob and a drop of wetness falls on my neck.
I hold my breath.
"Not after what happened to—to the others," he finishes brokenly, still unable to speak the name he has not uttered in over ten years.
AN: I lied last time. Sorry. V made me put off most of the "big twist" until next chapter, but I hope this is enough of a cliffhanger for you all. Who is Peter thinking of? Leave a review and tell us what you think!
