A/N: Hello again! Since you were so great, and you read and reviewed so quickly, and since my professor was kind to me, I'll post another part of that long chapter I owed you that will now end up becoming several shorter chapters. Don't despair! (I know it's hard!). There will be more. In the meantime, enjoy this!


It rained, and the water poured down from the opening like a waterfall. It was stained a reddish brown from the mud, but still it was cleaner than the stagnant pool in the corner of the cave, and Neal stood under it for as long as it lasted, drinking and trying to get the plastered mud off his clothes and skin. It worked somewhat, but it left him with a taste of clay in his mouth. It wasn't night yet, but when he went back to sit in the boulder he felt as though whole days had passed. A deep weariness had set on him, in his bones, and the pain and the growing hunger only made it worse. He wanted to sleep but yet the prospect of lying down in the mud with all the bugs he could not see did not appeal to him.

From the boulder, it was easy to see that the spot right under the opening was raised slightly higher than the rest of the cave, from accumulated dead leaves, branches and mud. He used one of the straightest branches he could find and he tied it around his injured leg to serve as a splint. With it, he could move with a little more ease. He inventoried his possessions: a set of picks, a watch with no back light, his shirt, his pants, his boots. Scavenging about the ground – he had to go by touch since he could not see – he'd found a couple of rusted old soup cans, some wrappers and a narrow metal cane. It served to prove he was not as far from civilisation as he'd thought, but he could find no use for them. He was surrounded by sheer rock. Even if he had not been hurt, he was only a man. And no man could hope to climb out of there.

At night, all residual light faded. Despite the fact that his eyes were now used to the dark, he could see nothing, not even his hand in front of his face. He tried again to light the fire, but it was futile, and he was too tired. His clothes clung to his skin, damp and gritty. It was one of the things that he had not managed to get used to, living there. You always felt damp, and when you got wet, it was close to impossible to get dry again.

He slumped on the rock, feeling defeated. What was he to do now? His mind wandered, and he pictured living in that cave for years and years, eating birds and rotten water, slowly losing his mind, until he no longer remembered the sun or the sky, until all he could hear was the screeching of the birds – and nothing more. He imagined a rope being flung from the jagged opening. He imagined being found by spelunking tourists, a toothless old man with long hair and beard. He imagined that those tourists might somehow find out his name, and that they would take him to Peter. Peter would not recognise him.

He smiled, but the corners of his mouth still pointed downwards. Would Peter recognise him, even now?

He sighed, and realised it would probably never come to that. He would die of disease or infection long before his hair grew long. Maybe it would only take a week or two, before Mozzie even noticed he-

He straightened up abruptly. No. No. Was this the way his life would come to an end? It couldn't. He was more than that. He'd gotten out of worse than this. He wasn't just a man, he was… more. And if he wasn't, then he had to think of others. He had to trust Mozzie. Mozzie would come through. And if he didn't, then he was to have a back up plan.

He looked around him, at the heap of wood by the opening, and he decided he was going to make himself a ladder.


Time passed quicker once he had a purpose, and he managed to place the hunger and the pain in a corner of his mind, where he could pretend it wasn't there. In the jet black darkness he tore up the sleeves of his shirt and wove them into twine, then he did the same with the elastic bark of some of the branches. It was a long night of rope-making, the screeching and fluttering of the birds becoming progressively louder, and before he spotted the shimmer of light by the overhanging roots, he thought it might be night forever. Down there, there wasn't much of a difference, anyway.

In three days, he had the stiles set up against the walls, and half of the rungs, but his work was much slower. He had to stop constantly, his left foot had gone numb and he could no longer feel his toes. A pain dwelled permanently behind his eyes and every time he moved, the effort made him dizzy. The hunger was something real now, that he could feel in his stomach, a burning lack, and he wandered close to the birds in case he found a fallen nestling. When there was nothing, he began to throw stones. The despair he'd crushed down bubbled up at that moment, and with it a streak of madness. The birds left the walls and swarmed in a clould around him but he did not stop.

"Damn you!" he screamed at them. The echoes were lost in the screeching. He grabbed a large rock from the ground and threw it at the empty nests. "I'm wrecking… your nests! Won't you come back…! For your… eggs?! You… irresponsible mothers! You abandon your children!"

Two nests came off. He searched with both guilt and hunger for a fallen egg, but he found none. He wondered though, if he would have eaten one raw if he had found one, or if he had not yet come to that point.


It rained harder than ever his third night. He could hear the thunder from down there, and the lightning reached him like the flashes of a camera – too swift to allow him to make anything out in the dark. The bugs fled the sodden mud and they crept up to his boulder seeking higher ground. Though he stuffed cotton from his shirt into his ears, and tried to shut out their shuffling and jittering, he felt them when he turned or moved. Though he tried, he could not squash them all.

"God…" he whispered, swallowing back to try and ease the lump of hopelessness that had formed in his throat. He begged for something – anything, to help him stop this torture that was worse than the hunger, or the pain, or the darkness. And then a warm drop fell on his hand as he rubbed his eyes. It was thick, and foul-smelling, and though he knew what it was he laughed when he realised for the first time what it meant, and what he had previously missed. He looked up at the birds with their shining eyes. Oil birds, that was what David had called them. Their droppings were high in minerals. Very flammable.

He rubbed his dry fuel leaves on the walls covered in droppings, and placed them back under the wooden cube with the hole. He held the bow he had built his first day there, and swung it back and forth just as he'd done before. Though his strength was diminished, he found it in himself to pull harder and longer, past the point when the white smoke rose, and the sharpened tip of the stick burnt red, and the wood dissolved into embers. And then, like a miracle, the leaves caught fire. They burned first with a green incandescence, and then as he placed other leaves and twigs over them the yellow flames rose and warmed his face. He dropped back, his shoulders and back burning, his heart thumping in his chest, but he laughed.

"Fire. Fire! Who said I couldn't do it?"

He began to see the cave, really see it, for the first time. He fed the fire until it grew large enough to shine on the whole of the place, even the cornes where the stalactites cast eerie shadows on the walls. The birds, frightened by the smoke, flew out the opening and for once there was silence. The colour of the walls surprised him – it was not black but tarry brown, with streaks of white that looked like quartz. Bugs rose from the earth under the fire and they scurried away, leaving him alone, but the flying bugs were attracted to the light and they swarmed around it.

He looked down on himself. He was even filthier than he had imagined, his clothes and skin were black from the mud even after he had tried washing off. He noticed insect bites and rashes all over his arms and ankles, and slowly, very slowly, he lifted the left side of his pants to look at his leg. He took a sharp in-breath, and pulled back the cloth. It was swollen, warm to the touch, and darkened, from his upper ankle, almost to his knee. It felt stiff and numb. He had probably landed right on top of it.

He made his finishing touches to the ladder, and then took a lit up branch for his fire and retreated to his dry spot behind the boulder. He let the branch smoke with leaves, to scare bugs away, and he laid down to sleep. He felt at ease for the first time since he'd fallen, and it did not take him long to fall asleep. He was going to climb up in the morning.


"Today!" he announced, standing below his ladder. "Today, we're going up. We're going up today, ladder. Well, I am. You, my lovely ladder, will stay right here in case Rob is waiting up there to throw me back in – you never know, right?" He laughed, and stroked the stiles of his ladder. It had held him well so far, but he had not attempted to climb to the top yet. "So, I'm sorry, lovely, ladder. It seems we will only have known each other a short time."

He adjusted the base, ceremoniously gathered his things, and then took a first step up the rungs. It slipped, but only a little.

"Come on, now…"

He went straight to the second stop, and quickly jumped to the third before it could give under his weight. He supported himself on the stiles to avoid putting much strain on the rungs, but as he got higher he felt them swerve, the unions of the branches creaking and bending. Halfway through, he came into the light, beautiful, blinding morning light, and for a moment everything was white and marvellous and he forgot his hopelessness. He even thought about what he would tell Peter about this, once he saw him again – he was going to see him again, he'd decided that already, it didn't matter what Mozzie said. He raised his leg to step again, one more step to touch the root of the giant tree, and then the stiles folded. The bindings broke and the rungs slipped down from under him. He plummeted to the ground with the rest of the ladder coming on top of him in splinters. He felt as though he'd been robbed off all the air on his lungs as he landed on his back, but as soon as his vision clear and he saw the jagged opening he took a gasping breath.

"No! No!"

He shook his head. So close! The pain in his leg flared again and angry tears formed in the corner of his eyes. He pushed the rungs off of him and sat up, taking tiny gasps to get air back into his chest.

"God… This isn't… This is not fair!"

Fair! Fair! Fair!

"I don't deserve this."

He bent his head down, low. The fire had gone off, leaving only embers. He collapsed back against the boulder, but with the last of his strength he flung fresh leaves at the charred remains, and with the help of the bird poop, the leaves lit up. Neal closed his eyes, but when he heard a sizzle he opened them again, and just then the light reflected on something in the mud under the opening. He crawled towards it, slowly, and then reached for that speck of light. Despite the fact that he could not really see it, the moment his hands wrapped around it, he knew what it was.

A phone. Laura's phone.

He pressed the end-key, and it blinked to life. He chuckled.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" he muttered. She must have tossed it in after he fell, but it was a futile gesture. She obviously knew he would never get any signal down there. The screen read 'searching', and it angered him in a way he had not expected – hope, when fleeting, only brought more despair with it. He flung it to the other side of the boulder and rested his head back. He regretted it moments later, but when he tried to go and get it he realised he no longer had the strength to do so. He closed his eyes, and a troubled sleep took him.


The heat of the flames scorching the hair in his arms woke him up, but he found he could not stand anymore. He could no longer tell if it was day or night from where he sat, not with the fire on, and he lost track of the time he'd spent there. He licked his lips and felt them chapped, but the effort of getting under the opening to catch the rainwater seemed too great, then. And he didn't want to get wet. He was cold, shivering now, despite the sweat that covered him. At first he didn't understand, his thoughts were muddled, his mind felt foggy, bogged down. Then he recognised it as a fever, and he scoffed. He would not live to be a crazy old cave man, then. He felt strangely relieved by that thought.

He let the fire die again. Once its light faded, he could once again see that of the opening, and he found comfort in the leaves that caught the sunlight, high up there under the tree. They reminded him that there was still a world out there, that he was not alone. It was a weak hope, but it was better than nothing. He watched it, all day long until it faded into night, and once again he dreamt.

For a while, he entertained thoughts that Laura and Rob would come back for him, that they had not really intended to kill him. Then he thought, well, maybe Rob would go on, but Laura might change her mind. He might've been wrong about her, but his assessment about who she was had not yet been disproved. She was a good person, deep down. She could save him yet.

He waited, but she did not come. Mozzie did not come either, no one came. No once called his name from the top, no one peered down to check if he was still alive, no one bothered. He wanted to keep trying, to climb out, to build another ladder, to throw a rope and hope to get it to tie itself up in the surface. It was with bitterness that he conceded that, even if there was a firm ladder dropping from the heavens, he might not be able to climb it now.

There was no hunger anymore. It was over.


His mind was drifting, but a sound of ruffling brought it back. It was not the birds – they were strangely quiet. His eyes travelled to the opening, and he almost jumped right out of the mud when he saw the rope. His ears were buzzing, so he could not really make out any sound, but clearly he saw a figure climbing down, and then landing in the mud. It did not carry a light. It moved slowly around, but with confidence, with determination. Neal did not have to wait to see the figure under the light to know who it was.

"Peter?" he called. His voice was hoarse and for a moment he didn't know if he'd been heard. Then the figure turned, and went straight towards him. Peter carried an antique gas lamp that reminded Neal of Aladdin's lamp. Its light was yellow and wavering.

"Neal. You're here." The voice was hushed, but filled with emotion. Peter leaned next to him, and held his arm. "We need to get you out of here."

"I knew you'd come," Neal said, smiling, thought it was a lie. It didn't matter, Peter was here. Nothing mattered.

"Come on. Let's get you up," said Peter. He carefully lifted Neal off the ground and pulled his arm over his shoulder. Neal let his head hang forwards in exhaustion.

"Is someone up there… to lift us up?" he asked. Peter surprised him by shaking his head.

"No. We can't go back that way, the rope won't hold."

"But… what other way…?"

"There's another entrance. Come on."

Peter half carried him to the corner of the cave, where the stalactites towered above their heads. Neal wondered how could he have missed another entrance, but then he felt his feet sink into cold water. They were in the pool.

"No. Not that way. You've got it wrong…" he said, and pulled back. Peter patted his back and smiled kindly.

"It's all right, Neal. Trust me."

"I trust you, but…"

"Trust me. I'll get you out. It'll be okay. I'm just rounding up this heap of branches."

"Yes, but… why this way? Why…?"

"Calm down, Neal."

Suddenly his legs gave. He splashed into the black, stinking water, and sank. The shock was so great he gasped while still under and he swallowed, and then gagged. When he managed to get his head back up, Peter was still there standing with his ankles in the pool, leaning down in front of him with a frown on his face.

"Neal. What are you doing?" he asked, with concern.

"Help me out," Neal pleaded. He splashed to the muddy back and tried to pull himself out but he had no hold. Peter reached for him, but then Neal tried for a hold once more and his hands tightened against Peter's legs. His left hand grasped a bare ankle; his left grasped a bony, hairy hoof. He screamed, and threw himself back, sinking in the dark water. When he came out, there was no eerie yellow light anymore, and he was alone.


It took him hours to get himself back to the boulder. He had to crawl, he could not walk, and that was what scared him the most, because it meant that Peter had not been a dream. Once he was lying in his dry spot again, he kept his eyes open in case he came back, but he didn't, and his thoughts came back to Laura and her stories. Did she believe them? Was this real? Was this the tree where the demon lived? He shivered with fear at the thought of it, and gagged again as he still felt in his mouth the rotting sediment of the water. If he'd had anything in his stomach he knew he would've been sick.

Though he drifted in and out of dreams, he knew that he was awake when the demon came back. It was not Peter this time. It didn't show up flashing a light or coming down a rope. It was just, suddenly, there.

"Hey, Neal."

He lifted his eyes at the soft voice, that he thought he would never again feel in his life, and in that moment he didn't care if she was real or not.

"Hey, Kate."

"What mess you've gotten yourself into…"

"Tell me about it. Couldn't do it without you, you know…"

"Ah, that's not true. You did just fine before you met me. And you've done just fine since. Even better, I'd say."

"But it's not the same…"

"Oh, no, don't blame this on me. You should have known better."

"Yeah." Neal sighed. "I know that. But with Laura… I tried to be angry at her. I was, at first. But I don't think I'm angry anymore."

"That's because you're like her, that way. You would do anything for love."

"But you're not a psychopath and a murderer."

"How do you know that? How do you know I did not plan on selling you out? On using you to get my way? How do you know that's not exactly what I was doing the day I boarded that plane?"

"I choose not to believe that."

"You can choose whatever you want. But there is only one truth."

Neal turned his head away. He rubbed his eyes with a tired hand. He was so tired, now…

"Why are you here, Kate?" he asked. She shrugged.

"Am I, really?"

"Do you have a goat's leg?"

She laughed. When he blinked, she was gone.


A/N: Thanks for reading! Did I fool any of you at first? I am evil (you can probably tell!). I promise it won't be long now! I hope you like this. Leave me a review or comment in the box below, and in the meantime I'll be hard at work to post the next part. This story, initially only 30k long, has just reached NaNoWriMo length. Hurray!