Disclaimer: We own nothing.
"Then it's a good thing I'm not going anywhere," I say, opening my eyes and attempting a smile. Someday he will manage to do it. Someday he will utter that name without breaking down. And I will be here for him.
"You can hear me," he whispers.
I nod.
"You can hear me," he repeats.
"Aslan came to me, in the . . ." Well, it's not exactly night anymore. More like mid-morning. "While I was sleeping. My ankle still feels sprained, but at least I can hear you again."
I let out a startled oof as I'm crushed in a ferocious bearhug and more tears drop onto my neck. "Shhh, shh," I soothe, tangling my fingers in his golden hair and drawing his head up until his eyes meet mine. "I'm right here, Peter." It is at times like this that I love him most, when he drops his defenses and I can see the naked worry in his face, the overpowering love and care that tells me I will always, always, always be wanted.
Knowing, though, is not enough. There is a carefully balanced give-and-take to these conversations: words I must say and words I must hear, so I pull myself up to a sitting position, ignoring the flash of pain that stabs my ankle.
"I'm sorry, Peter," I whisper, looking away and letting the sick guilt in my stomach bubble up again. "I'm so, so sorry. If I hadn't suggested riding this far north—if I hadn't pushed to camp on the far side of the Shribble—I insisted there wouldn't be any Giants and that was stupid and foolish. We could have both been killed. You could have been killed, Peter, and then who would take care of the girls?" I bow my head in shame. "My King, can you ever forgive me?"
His hands cradle my face, stroking my cheeks gently with his thumbs. "I can. I will. You were trying to distract me from my nightmares, and we both should have known better than to assume it was safe. If anyone is to blame, I am."
"Peter . . ."
"I am. I never should have left, even for a minute, while you were sleeping, and you nearly were made into a pie. I know very well I'm the reason we go on these rides, and D—"
I put my hands on his shoulders, resting my forehead against his. "Peter." So many things we don't say, that we can only feel, but we don't have to do it alone.
He catches himself, swallows hard. "What's past is past. Aslan has given us a new day, you and I, and we must honour his gift and put aside this unending regret." He gazes at me for a moment, and there is vulnerability in the way he looks at me, the strength of the King set aside and I know in this moment he is just Peter. His voice is unusually gentle as he catches the tear that slips down my face with his thumb. "There is nothing you could do that would ever make me love you less."
"I don't deserve it," I whisper, closing my eyes. The truth in his eyes is too much for me to bear.
"Neither do I. Neither did—" His voice breaks again, and he buries his face in my hair. I feel him ghost a kiss across my brow. "None of us deserves it," he says, composing himself and pulling me close against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around my waist. "You don't have to earn my love. You already have it. And you always will."
Overwhelmed, I sink into the refuge of his embrace, knowing that I am safe here, exactly where I long to be. Peter will always protect me, always come for me, and always love me, no matter what.
A roll of thunder rouses me. "Oh bother, is it going to rain?" I grumble into Peter's shirt.
Peter stiffens, pushing himself up from the ground and helping me to my feet as the first drops of rain fall.
"Are you sure you can walk?" he asks, hovering over me.
I clench my teeth against the pain. "Really, Peter, I'm fine. Put out the fire and let's go home."
He gives me a dubious look but I shoo him away and go to repack the saddlebags, so he douses the remains of the campfire and smothers it with cut turves. We've broken camp together often enough, and in very short order everything is loaded and we swing aboard Tarva, who tosses his head in protest of the extra load. He's had a couple hours to graze, though, and settles into a long swinging canter that eats into the miles.
"If we hurry, we can still get back in time for supper," I say hopefully, swiping rain out of my eyes with the back of my hand.
Tarva snorts, and it's almost as if he understands my words. Peter nods in agreement with the horse. (Really, Peter, the horse?) "Tarva has had a hard ride through the night. It would be cruel to press him any faster."
Impatient and longing to be home, I sigh and turn my head to rest against Peter's back, looking out upon the woods slowly creeping by.
"We missed Su's tea party," I say.
"Buck up, old chap! At least you missed the squealing princesses, too."
"True." And then a thought comes to me and I sit up, digging my fingers into Peter's shoulders. "Peter, listen to me. You are not, and I repeat, not, under any circumstances to refer to me as 'D' in front of the Telmarine senator, the princesses, or the girls. I know you like it—"
"It's for old times' sake!" he protests.
"I know, and I enjoyed that trip to Calormene as much as you did, and I do agree you were justified in wishing to keep our identities secret for a time, which was a good reason to shorten my name to 'D.' But not in front of the girls. Last time you did that Susan was giggling for days. Around the senator it's just undignified."
"Would you prefer DeeDee?" He smirks at me.
"Only if you wish me to refer to you—in a council meeting, no less—as T. I'll tell the Telmarine senator it's short for High King Petie."
"You wouldn't."
"I would." Further argument is cut off by a crack of thunder so loud it shakes the ground. "What was that?"
"Not rain," Peter says grimly, suddenly tense as if he senses danger, and he is scrabbling with the packs on Tarva's side. I see him find the bow stowed away and start to string it, and then he turns the horse's nose toward the woods and kicks hard.
My breath catches. The Giants.
I can hear their footsteps, thudding a long way off, but from the way the ground is shaking I know it won't be long until they catch up to us.
Nothing is worse than hungry, angry Giants.
We are into the woods; this will not hold them off for long, just give us a better shot at them while granting us precious cover. We'd be sitting ducks out on the plains.
Peter tumbles off Tarva's back and throws the quiver of arrows over his shoulder. He turns to me and gives me a brief pleading look. "Go. Ride to safety. Tell—tell the girls —"
"No. I won't leave you." I know I won't be much help in this fight, not with my ankle, but I will not leave Peter here alone, when it is my doing that the Giants are pursuing us.
He stares at me for a moment, calculating, then nods. "Then stay hidden. I'll—I'll do what I can."
And before I can say another word—before I can tell him to be careful, or good luck, or even that I love him—he is off, charging to the North.
They look like terrible lumbering mountains as they darken the horizon, those awful too-familiar shapes that seem to block out the sun. What chance does Peter have?
No, I tell myself. Peter has slain a thousand and more of their kind. He will prevail again. He won the Giant wars; if anybody can defeat these three, he can.
He takes down the dog with a single arrow—that is how the Giants tracked us so easily, I realize—and then he is firing shot after shot at the first of them, the one who caught me. I never heard his name . . . I almost laugh, but instead a choking kind of sob comes out. What does his name matter? All that matters is Peter, standing so bravely before the coming onslaught, a mere man before Giants, but oh! what a man. I remember the old story of the shepherd boy and his slingshot, and the Giant who had defeated every great warrior. That boy had become King too.
Peter, be careful. Good luck. I love you.
The first Giant is down. Thank you, Aslan.
He is on to the next one, with no time to spare; the horrid creatures are nearly upon him, and Peter can only unleash one more arrow into the leg of the second Giant, who roars with pain and charges, and Peter has to drop his bow and quiver and draw Rhindon from its sheath. Even from the shelter of the woods, I can see the glint of its sharpened edge, the gleam of its lion-head, as bright and golden as the King who wields it.
Furiously he slashes at the exposed feet of the Giant—Polyfemmus, I think—and narrowly avoids being stepped on. He needs to use all the quick footwork of our swordfighting practice and more to survive this battle. Still astride Tarva, who is pawing and snorting at the sight of his master fighting without him, I can hardly bear to watch, though there is no way I can look away either.
My body is strung as tightly as a bow, and I breathe a silent prayer for his safety, tracking his every movement. Polyfemmus stomps a monstrous foot at Peter, who leaps out of the way and around behind him, using the Giant's size and slowness to his own advantage.
Oh, well done Peter!
One wicked swing and Rhindon cuts through flesh and tendon, sending the Giant sinking down to ground clutching his ankle and cursing violently. The ground shakes as Polyfemmus crashes to his side. Still behind him, Peter points Rhindon directly at the Giant's back, right where his lung lies, and sinks the blade to the hilt.
I unclench my hands from Tarva's mane, breathing a little easier—only one left, and Peter can dispatch him easily. He is already tearing Rhindon from the back of the dying Giant and whirling to face the remaining opponent. I do not like the way Obblegorb is grinning and chuckling, an evil-sounding rumble that resonates like a black wave, and frantically I wonder why he has hung back all this time.
He advances on Peter, undeterred by the sight of the King who has just slain his brethren, and I expect Obblegorb to try to trample him or reach down and grab him.
He does none of these things. Instead, in one swift motion, the Giant whips a leather pouch from his belt and dives for Peter. Run! Get away! But Peter tries to fight back, swinging Rhindon at the Giant's reaching hand, and getting its blade tangled in the strings.
Cold horror sweeps over me as Peter is engulfed in the pouch and Obblegorb puts a monstrous booted foot over it—him—and my heart stops until I realize that the Giant isn't moving. He's just holding his foot there, as if deciding. Not that that's any better. Even if Peter manages to get Rhindon free and breaks through the leather of the pouch, there is no way he can pierce the foot that is threatening to crush him.
Peter!
AN: Well, what do you think? This chapter grew wildly in the writing (I suppose that's what happens when I let V add extra Giant chases!) and so we had to cut it in half. Stay tuned for the next half, which we intend to post tomorrow, Sunday evening, and after that an epilogue (if you haven't already followed, might do that—this is an ending you will NOT want to miss) and leave a review on the way out. Thanks! ~K
AN2: Forgot to add, thank you to WillowDryad for Peter's nickname!