His mother was frequently ill, he remembers that, but she always smiled, even in her worst moments. He was eight years old when he knelt beside her bed, wiping her brow with a damp cloth. Her labored breathing was the only sound in the room.
She pressed something into his hands, her skin feverishly hot against his, made him promise to never part with it. He made to ask her why it mattered and why she was giving it to him, only there were suddenly screams outside and the noise of clashing metal.
The Ravagers had come.
The two of them huddled in their home, and Peter prayed to every god he knew to please, keep them safe, please, please, please. But the gods weren't listening, and a Ravager kicked down their door.
Peter wrenched himself out of his mother's weakened grasp, pushed her behind him (protect her, save her, help her); he lifted a knife in his small hands, screamed at the man to leave them alone. At first the man only smiled a wicked grin, his mouth filled with crooked, sharp teeth, and then he pursed his lips, whistling some sort of jaunty tune. Peter was so confused that he didn't see the flash of movement, couldn't shove his mother out of the way, didn't notice the magicked arrow until he heard his mother suddenly gurgling behind him, and then he was screaming.
He wakes with a start and a strangled gasp (somehow, he's learned to wake quietly from those dreams; it doesn't do to show weakness among Ravagers) and tries to control his breathing.
It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to remember where he is, why he's there, and for a while he just stares blankly at the cavern's ceiling. The pain has ebbed, and the pounding in his head has faded to a dull ache. He still feels stiff, though, still a little tender, but well enough to venture sitting up -- which he manages to do with a little difficulty, and he takes his victories where he can get them.
He worries a little when he doesn't see Maya, and he remembers-- no, he thinks he might have laid himself bare in a way, came just shy of admitting how weak and useless he was, what a liability he had become for her. He does remember her denial of his insecurities, though, remembers how convincing she had sounded, remembers how close he had come to believing it.
Stupid, he thinks, and he rubs his eyes to ward away his exhaustion. She felt indebted. She felt obligated. She was being kind.
And look how he had thanked her for her kindness: ignored her, turned away, went to sleep, because of his body's weakness and his own weakness and maybe the Ravagers had it right the first time when they threatened to eat him.
He spots her, then, silhouetted at the mouth of the cave by the first few rays of dawn. It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to brace himself against the rough stone wall, pushes himself to stand. He uses the wall as a crutch as he moves to join her at the entrance.
Once there, though, words escape him, and he just stands there at the mouth of the den, one arm curling around his waist protectively.
Eventually, all he manages is a quiet, croaked, ] Morning.
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His mother was frequently ill, he remembers that, but she always smiled, even in her worst moments. He was eight years old when he knelt beside her bed, wiping her brow with a damp cloth. Her labored breathing was the only sound in the room.
She pressed something into his hands, her skin feverishly hot against his, made him promise to never part with it. He made to ask her why it mattered and why she was giving it to him, only there were suddenly screams outside and the noise of clashing metal.
The Ravagers had come.
The two of them huddled in their home, and Peter prayed to every god he knew to please, keep them safe, please, please, please. But the gods weren't listening, and a Ravager kicked down their door.
Peter wrenched himself out of his mother's weakened grasp, pushed her behind him (protect her, save her, help her); he lifted a knife in his small hands, screamed at the man to leave them alone. At first the man only smiled a wicked grin, his mouth filled with crooked, sharp teeth, and then he pursed his lips, whistling some sort of jaunty tune. Peter was so confused that he didn't see the flash of movement, couldn't shove his mother out of the way, didn't notice the magicked arrow until he heard his mother suddenly gurgling behind him, and then he was screaming.
He wakes with a start and a strangled gasp (somehow, he's learned to wake quietly from those dreams; it doesn't do to show weakness among Ravagers) and tries to control his breathing.
It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to remember where he is, why he's there, and for a while he just stares blankly at the cavern's ceiling. The pain has ebbed, and the pounding in his head has faded to a dull ache. He still feels stiff, though, still a little tender, but well enough to venture sitting up -- which he manages to do with a little difficulty, and he takes his victories where he can get them.
He worries a little when he doesn't see Maya, and he remembers-- no, he thinks he might have laid himself bare in a way, came just shy of admitting how weak and useless he was, what a liability he had become for her. He does remember her denial of his insecurities, though, remembers how convincing she had sounded, remembers how close he had come to believing it.
Stupid, he thinks, and he rubs his eyes to ward away his exhaustion. She felt indebted. She felt obligated. She was being kind.
And look how he had thanked her for her kindness: ignored her, turned away, went to sleep, because of his body's weakness and his own weakness and maybe the Ravagers had it right the first time when they threatened to eat him.
He spots her, then, silhouetted at the mouth of the cave by the first few rays of dawn. It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to brace himself against the rough stone wall, pushes himself to stand. He uses the wall as a crutch as he moves to join her at the entrance.
Once there, though, words escape him, and he just stands there at the mouth of the den, one arm curling around his waist protectively.
Eventually, all he manages is a quiet, croaked, ] Morning.