Chapter 7
It's like nothing he's seen before. Peeta knows this isn't true, that he can pluck many memories of sandworms and their riders from visions he witnessed as a child, but to remember and see it with his own eyes are two very different things.
Gale has removed them from the scene and onto higher ground, though he has kept them on the sands, their feet firmly planted and their bodies still as they watch the giant beast rise from beneath the earth. The scales on its back drip with scattered sand grains, some of which tickle Peeta's nose and eyelashes, but it is the worm's mouth that truly unsettles, with circular teeth that run the length of its beak and an overpowering odor of mélange as the thing moves, snakes through the sands and makes to depart.
This is where Gale springs into action. Peeta remembers riders in the sietch speak of the tiny tremor that passes through the ground as a worm retreats. The beast will be confounded by its own motion through the dunes and unable to hear sound in its immediate vicinity. This is the best time to act; a sort of now-or-never situation, which leaves Peeta with a mismatched set of fears and not a scarce amount of excitement. If he sets out to follow, it's because he can't conceive bearing the other man's smug smile for tomorrow's interrogation.
Sand dunes crumble and rebuild themselves with every step, his boots sinking and his feet far too slow to keep pace. The Tleilaxu Masters were right; the real thing does move faster. One moment Gale is a few paces ahead and the next he is running alongside the worm, hook in his hand and his shoulder nearly brushing the husk as he readies for its capture. Any sound of effort he might make is completely obscured by the glide of a heavy body through the sand, but Peeta knows he does not imagine the roar that fills his ears as the hook sinks in, prying open scales and forcing the worm to remain above ground when it would sooner sink beneath the sands.
Gale lifts himself onto the beast at a quick crawl, his stillsuit and hair so dark that for a long, loaded moment he is one with the animal, their bodies indistinguishable and their spirits in perfect sync. In the next, he's steering the worm left, into Peeta's path until the flicker of fear that broke surface earlier is back and Peeta is no longer sure Gale didn't bring him out here for an execution.
He's busy trying to remember if Fremen bury their enemies in the desert or run them through deathstills to extract water from the dead who no longer need it, when Gale puts an arm out and his hand, warm and calloused, closes around Peeta's.
The worm's husk is like tree bark, ridged and rough, but unlikely to leave splinters in his palm. Peeta rakes his knees against the scales, climbing quick and sloppy and hanging tight to the offered hand until he's close enough to grab onto Gale's stillsuit. His feet are spread wide on the back of the worm, foothold as steady as he can make it with the beast ebbing beneath him like a wave. It's riding a ship on stormy seas, but there's no water for miles. There's nothing out here, save for the hot burn of scratches on Peeta's hands and the tension in Gale's body.
"All right?" Seen up close, the other man's profile is all freckles and dust, a crooked smile tugging up the corner of his lips.
Peeta pinches his side, but the stillsuit is thick and unyielding and he can't be sure intention makes much of an impact. "Just watch where you're going." Far from wishing to admit his failings in front of Gale, of all people, Peeta can't deny a slight discomfort. Like all things new, riding sandworms feels a little frightening, a little exciting, but mostly surreal, like something he's wanted to try yet never dared to.
He doesn't ask where Gale is taking them. The rush of air and the sound of friction as they carve new paths through the sand is enough to stifle conversation, but it also helps to be overwhelmed with the novelty of the thing. By rights, he should planting a knife in Gale's back and be done with his mission once and for all. If the other man didn't expect it, Peeta might even do it. He doesn't want to please by proving his enemies right.
Gale is saying something, his mouth moving in a rush of sound that Peeta can't quite make out. He slides closer, working his arm around Gale's waist to secure the hold. The other man's hair is in his mouth as he speaks: "What?"
"Sietch!" A sharp nod of his chin directs Peeta's eyes to a spot of black on the gray-yellow sky. There's no mistaking the silhouette of a cliff, though from this distance it could be a mirage of the sands. Windbreakers wouldn't show at this distance. Neither would the small birds which circle the few human settlements that have survived in the desert. But if Gale says they're there, Peeta believes him. He believes even more when Gale turns his head again, his breath mingling with the cool breeze and Peeta's hissed exhales, to add: "Home."
Not just Gale's home, at that, but Peeta's, too. Once upon a time, at least.
He slithers back, putting distance between their bodies and fighting hard to remind himself where he comes from. What he is. The Tleilaxu will not have returned him to Arrakis out of charity.
It's anybody's guess if the desert ride has brightened the ghola's mood. To see him on their return to the palace, Gale can't help harbor resentment. After the risks he's taken and the gamble he opted for in defense of all reason, here is Peeta walking sullenly beside him, his fists coiled and his eyes trained on the south wall of the palace keep. Soon they will have to stop so he can be blindfolded again. Gale wonders if that will engender another fight.
"Are you morose because I shoved you down?" If nothing else, the trip has taught him what he only suspected before; Peeta will throw a punch if he feels wronged. He won't go easily to his death. That insufferable pride of his seems to have survived both death and resurrection.
The ghola doesn't answer until Gale grabs his arm. "What's gotten into you? Expecting an apology because I made you fall on your ass? Get over yourself; you don't know the first thing about life in the desert, you don't have a clue what it takes to ride a worm or trek through the sands or—" A hand at his throat cuts short the tirade, Peeta suddenly too close, too angry, his eyes too grey under the fading moonlight. He looks about to snap, like a chord pulled to breaking point. Gale didn't think he could wind him up so easily. It's disconcerting. So is being caught off guard.
But Peeta doesn't squeeze at his throat any tighter than he needs to shove him off. "Conceit," he snarls, "doesn't become you, Gale." A moment later, the hand at his throat is gone and Peeta is stepping away, his shoulders tense and fists locked tight under the sleeves of his borrowed stillsuit. He was like this in the arena, too; arrogant, self-interested and manipulative. Gale didn't understand what was going through his mind when he allied himself with the enemy and didn't see his betrayal coming until it was too late and Katniss nearly lost her ear. He's terrified of making the same mistake twice, now that so much more is at stake.
They resume their walk, shoulder to shoulder until it's time for the blindfold. There are no words; Gale gives up trying to unlock the secrets hidden inside the ghola's mind and he receives no thanks for his efforts. It's fast become apparent that his intentions have hit the edge of a deep lake, his ankles submerged but the rest of him unwilling to take another step. Peeta was a shifty bastard before he died and he's no better now. His treacherous depths beguile with a pretty smile and eyes the color of the sea, but Gale never learned to swim and he can't judge if the surf is shallow or profound, rocky or smooth and forgiving.
He leads them into the palace through the same catacombs, murmuring advice that Peeta follows with exemplary obedience. They don't trip, much, and too soon the door that parts under Gale's handling is the hidden passage which leads into Peeta's cell. It can be opened from both sides, or else it wouldn't be of much use, but Gale knows better than to share that information with his prisoner.
"I'll leave you, then." He waits inside the room, his back to the wardrobe and his hands empty save for the improvised blindfold.
If his wandering gaze is anything to go by, Peeta isn't interested in parting words. He seems restless, off his game, hands busy untying the straps that hold up his suit. The occasional grunt slides in between sharp tugs that are likely to damage the material more so than dislodge it, yet any attempt to offer help would, Gale knows, be met with violence. He makes to leave.
"Wait."
"Yes?" There is a hopeful edge to Gale's voice and it doesn't belong there. He hates himself for the weakness, but it's too late to hide it.
The ghola is stripped to the waist, his skin perfectly dry despite the effort expended in the hike. "What do I do with the suit?" It has the makings of a Fremen concern, though Peeta isn't Fremen nor ever will be. Only a sietch dweller would care about recycling the water stored inside the fleshy fibers of the stillsuit. On the other hand, only a guilty mind would wish to conceal what it perceives as incriminating evidence.
Gale shrugs. "I'll take it." It's not what he'd planned, but from a security standpoint, it makes better sense than leaving the suit with the ghola. Unlikely as it is that Peeta should make it out of the palace unsupervised, there's no need to give him the tools for a successful desert crossing.
Heavier now than it was when he brought it in, the stillsuit is returned to the satchel and the satchel moved a foot nearer to where Gale has remained, unmoving, throughout the ritual. The ghola doesn't seem to care that he is naked or peppered with fine sand grains on his cheeks and eyebrows. He disappears into the open bath a moment later, the sound of the spray a strange contrast to the squeezings saved by the stillsuit.
Gale reminds himself that gholas are not quite people and contradictory behavior is the first sign that something isn't quite right with Tleilaxu materials. Yet as he leaves, his mind has space only for the mole on Peeta's back, a palm's width up from his tailbone, like a pressure-switch embedded into his spine.
He knows it well.