[closed, backdated to Jan 18th] They say Fate's a floozy, and Hope's just a liar.
Neal hits the ground and stays there for several seconds, eyes closed, waiting for sensation to fade. It doesn't. If anything, his sense of being battered half to hell gets more intense as bruises start to throb and scrapes begin to sting.
Except that he's warm. Warm, lying on the soft prickle of grass, and the air smells fresh and almost sweet with flowers. Neal opens his eyes and eases himself upright; it's sunny, the area around him is clear, and the trees are all green with leaves and the sharpness of color that says it rained here recently.
"Harry?" he hisses, and gets to his feet. There's nothing. Just birdsong and a pleasant breeze. "Peter?"
No one. He's alone.
Except that he's warm. Warm, lying on the soft prickle of grass, and the air smells fresh and almost sweet with flowers. Neal opens his eyes and eases himself upright; it's sunny, the area around him is clear, and the trees are all green with leaves and the sharpness of color that says it rained here recently.
"Harry?" he hisses, and gets to his feet. There's nothing. Just birdsong and a pleasant breeze. "Peter?"
No one. He's alone.