This is me around page 517, in a delicate moment of suspense, hitting the reader over the head again and again. Needless to say, it’s not in the final version:

Opening his eyes, Pietro tried to look for a gap in the falling clods of ground above. There was none. If he could only reach the tunnel! What if Pathino was waiting? The hell with Pathino! Dragging Cesco with him, Pietro clawed towards where he imagined the edge of the cavern was. He was choked, the boy was coughing and retching, they both felt the weight of loose earth striking the mounds already piled on their shoulders.

Atlas. This is what Atlas felt. The little voice returned once more to taunt him. Hector, Achilles, and now Atlas. Will she mourn, you think? Or will she only notice that you failed to save her precious Greyhound?

Pietro struggled forward. Dirt got into his mouth, his hair, his face – his whole body was being forced to the ground, crushing the very child he’d come to protect.

The weight was incredible, forcing the air from his lungs, and still the dirt poured down. He knew he shouldn’t move, he should maintain a safe space that he could dig his way out of after. But he couldn’t lie still and be buried. He clung one-handed to Cesco and clawed forward through the terrifying denseness of the dark. Beneath him the boy was kicking and flailing at the falling dirt and Pietro alike.

You never were worth very much, Pietro. You were never important, like your father. No philosopher-warrior-poet, you. You’re going to die here. You can’t save the boy. You can’t even save yourself.

The child was clutching him now, trying to breathe the clear air in the pocket of space created underneath Pietro’s body. It made the going easier not to be fighting the child as well as the walls.

It doesn’t matter. Face it, boy. You’ve failed her. You’ve failed your father. Most of all, you failed Cangrande. Did you want to be like him? You’re not. You never could be. You don’t matter. You’ll be forgotten no matter what you do, so why not lie down and give up?

The thudding stopped. There was air to breathe. It was heavy and thick with floating dirt, but it was air. Pietro realized that the weight had lessened. He couldn’t see, he was surrounded by darkness as the landslide finally came to a halt, but they were alive.

Reaching up a hand, his fingers found not earth, but hard timber. Two of the hidden supports that had caused the avalanche had struck at an angle, leaving a space open beneath them. They were in an alcove.

From the moment the lever was pulled, the whole disaster had taken less than a minute.

Coughing, Pietro checked Cesco, who was shaking, but conscious. “Don’t worry, Francesco. I’ll get us out of here. You just – think of your favorite puzzle.”

The child moved slightly and Pietro felt something metal bump into his shoulder in the darkness. Grasping it, he ran his fingers carefully about it. A sword. Not Cangrande’s, which was still clasped in Pietro’s right hand. It was his own Spanish sword. Cesco must have dragged it with him through the tumult.

“Thanks,” said Pietro. He twisted and began testing places in the soil to dig. He was concerned that shifting the weight of the earth around them might bring more crashing down. He found a place he thought safe and, using the crossed hilts of the sword to drag the soil out and down, began digging. At times he burrowed like a hare, sometimes he pulled with the swords. At times he hacked at roots of the fallen trees. All the time he tried to push their way to freedom.

The digging went well until, moving one particularly solid clump of earth, Pietro’s fears were realized. Everything shifted, and Cesco’s cry was muffled as the world came crashing down.