Don't Open That Door - GoM 1

11

The last thing I expected was seeing The Guardian stand up and wave for me to go with him. He walked into another tunnel. I hurried to follow, my heart racing. He took me to another cave where not even a hint of glow from the fire lit, and he stopped me from going in.

"He is here," The Guardian said. "In touch with the land he does not love enough to protect. You can only enter here once, hunter's child. If you step out of here without him, he will be mine. Forever. Do you understand?"

I nodded, fighting my urge to push him aside and go into the cave. But he wasn't done with me yet.

"It would be easier if you loved him, for your heart would tell you where to find him in no time. But you do not, so there is no telling whether either of you will make it out of here alive. Do you still want to try?"

I didn't bother to answer and walked into this cave, feeling the soft soil under my feet.

When did that happen, George? Is the sun up out there, in that world where things other than constant darkness exist?

I'm about to pass out. I pause, kneeling on the soil, and sink my hands in it, stone on my shoulders, fire in my lungs, a ruthless claw—Oh my God!

My instinct makes me yank my hands away and I sink them in again right away. Because I just touched something that has to be your hand. Please, let it be your hand, George! Else both of us will be dead soon.

And yes! It's your hand! Fear becomes a frantic rush that makes me dig like a rabid mole. Good Lord! I can hardly believe it! It is your hand! I dig out most of your arm, stagger back to my feet and just start pulling, not thinking straight at all.

The soil gives away a little and your head comes out. I fall to my knees once more, because I can't see you in the darkness. My hands tell me your eyes are closed. You're so cold that fear is now a cruel claw squeezing my sore throat. So up to my feet once more. And I pull, I trip, I fall. I don't care. I start over. I grab your armpits from behind to pull you out, dragging you inch by inch out of this horrible tomb where The Guardian buried you alive.

But you're too heavy for me and I stumble down under your weight. I don't let go of you, though, sitting on the soil with my arms around your chest, your head to my shoulder. And I lose who knows how much precious time until I can get a grip on myself and stop crying. Still sobbing, out of breath, I pat your cheeks, I call out your name. But you don't even blink. Only then I think of laying you down and check your pulse. There's none. Your heart's not beating—and mine's about to give up out of desperation. I react enough to try some CPR on you.