Winter's Abyss Part 9/?
Title: Winter's Abyss
Author: robingal1
Pairing/characters: P/E/N
Spoilers: none
Warnings: cursing/blood/death/werewolves
Summary: AU where Neal is a man with a dark and tragic past, Peter is a Civil Enforcer, Elizabeth is a High Priestess, and Bugsy is a horse.
Author's note: Your choices define you. Therefore, in this AU, character choices will be different than those of the canon-verse, but the characteristics will remain. Constructive criticism highly welcomed.
His soul was confused. He had not used his Earthstone in years. Not since he quit the Guild, quit the Bondsman, quit his life. His life had been simple, boring at times, but with Kate by his side, a worthy exchange: his pride and powers in turn for a lifetime in peace with his love.
But now, Kate was gone. And his Earthstone, buried deep inside his heart, was the return of a rich wine to an absent alcoholic. The warm glow of it pulsing through him.
His senses heightened, his endurance nearly unending, and his obligation so perfectly clear before him.
His fingers itched to join the unavoidable battle. His knives, resting under his coat, held his Kate, his love, his vengeance, his relentless need to kill these murdering Goddess dammed beasts.
Peter, sword drawn, at his back, followed him to the cellar. That was a different challenge. The Enforcer should not be seeing these things, but his honesty, his integrity, was likely the only thing that might save his broken soul tonight.
Peter stood guard at the bottom of the steps, near the door once more. Neal scanned the damp and old cellar.
“They're here.” He whispered.
“The fleece? Flesh? The evidence we need?”
“Don't you smell that? The decay that never decays. The rot that never rots away. Flesh of the first kill.”
“Find it, then. I wish to... Neal? Do you hear that?”
“Hear what? I don't hear anything.”
“Exactly. I don't hear any more screaming coming from the farmhouse. They could be-”
“-On their way back?” A male voice, arrogance in every note. He had the smell of decay about him. He was wearing the flesh; he was going to Turn, tomorrow night, under the moon. Likely, he would Turn others tonight. More than the murdering woman laying dead upstairs, perhaps dozens.
“Fowler!” Peter spat the name at the Steward.
The man, Fowler, descended the stairs slowly. At his throat was a jewel, an Earthstone. Neal couldn't stop the gasp from his lungs.
“Shocked? I don't see why. We're the Civil Guard, fool. Of course we know about Bondservants.” He grinned wide. “We took precautions.” He gestured to the jewel. “I took this from the last Bondswoman. She screamed for days. Apparently, these aren't just for show; they are, in fact, bonded to each Bondservant. Finally, I just burned the flesh from her, and the jewel survived...” Fowler strutted the rest of the way into the cellar.
Neal stood still, eyes Seeing as two other wolves approached; they had no jewel; they stayed at the top stair, waiting for their orders.
His eyes were useless at Fowler. The wolf knew it.
But only a Master can Turn others. And Fowler was no Master. “You told the servant woman, likely many before, that you would Turn them. You promised them immortality, but you dangle the treat too far from them. They burn themselves out trying. Why keep them at all?” Neal never moved. His hands away from his body, kept at his sides. His voice low, level, peaceful.
“To watch them believe. They think that they can have this power. And when it comes time to Hunt... they will die from my teeth, and the sudden realization that they were always a play toy.
“The taste of the desperation, mixed with their crushed dreams... No meal can compare.”
Peter stood as Neal left him, near the bottom of the stairs. Kramer was a single step from him.
The Enforcer sigil still active, every sight, every sound, every sense made record, so long as Peter lived.
“And tonight, you prepare for the Hunt? Tomorrow, the moon full and bright. You'll run these fools into the ground and devour the sweetest meat?”
Fowler raised a brow. “Yes.” Ignoring Peter, coming closer, Fowler loomed over him. The decay was strong, years old. No matter how many layers of clothing, or strong perfumes, a scent that old could not be hidden. Peter must have been fighting not to gag, so near to the wolf and his flesh, his first kill from so long ago.
The man unsheathed his sword, an old blade, well kept, a soldier’s legacy proudly displayed. He casually brought the end to Neal's heart.
Neal leaned into the blade, the end sharp, biting. Blood soaked his shirt. “Can your feel it, wolf? The Earthstone? Just before your steel?” Neal felt his smile, a cruel and deadly thing, teeth and anger, a smile wide and uncaring.
“Fool, I will eat your eyes first.” Fowler lifted his sword, sudden and filled with wrath, a strike powerful and hungry aimed at his heart. The blow came fast and hard... but missed.
Instead, Fowler fell past Neal. He came to his feet quickly, preparing another blow. He roared as he lifted his sword above his head, and stopped, in pain. A burning, a deep, deep burning. “What?”
He pulled away, away from Neal, away from Peter, away from the door, away from his fellow wolves, against the cellar wall, panting. Neal smiled still, a feckless thing, built with malice.
“Felt that, did you?” Neal was steady, unmoved from his place in the damp earth, arms away from his body, a non-threat. “Does it hurt? No. It burns. A fire in your flesh. And it will never heal, wolf.”
Neal could feel it, the Earthstone. So long unused, screaming to be used again, beating against his heart, demanding, relentless, and so deadly.
Fowlwer, hand to his side, felt the blood seeping down is ribs from his armpit. His dominant arm hanging uselessly.
He looked to his wolves, who carefully entered the cellar. They had their swords at the ready. They had their flesh about them, wrapped and hidden against themselves.
Neal could See them with ease. Everything was easy. Goddess! Why had he ever put away his Earthstone?
“Peter, those two descending, they're only human this night, no matter how much they wish otherwise. The flesh they wear, it is weak and still new. They can not call on the strength of it. It takes years of bathing the rot in blood.” Peter stood with his sword at the ready, his breathing calm, and his displeasure clear. “They can not be reformed, Peter. They are feral.”
Fowler rose, steady and sure, ready to kill, to protect his pack from the Bondservant.
“You'll die. Both of you. I would have saved you for my Master, but tonight you die, Bondsman. I'll wear two stones!” He moved, swift, a ghost in the darkness.
His Earthstone useless against his speed, the Sister Earthstone blocking his Sight. But he had Kramer to kill; he was fueled with a fury Fowler could not touch, could not stand against. Fowler was going to fall this night, hard.
“Neal!” Peter shouted in warning, too late. The wolf hitting him across his back, a slash made for pain, to disarm, not to kill. Fowler meant for this to go on.
A shout of surprise and pain left him. “Neal!”
But Peter was unable to cross the cellar. The others were on him. Two on one, but evenly matched against the Captain.
Neal stood, pride and arrogance to match Kramer's. The Earthstone blocking the pain, giving him the strength to endure. “Don't worry, Peter.” His voice calm, his breathing peaceful. “Dispatch your quarry, Captain.”
Neal stood his ground against the wolf twice more. The darkness working to the wolf's advantage. His Sight useless.
He felt the madness so long held at bay clawing its way to the surface. His grief, his regrets, his broken soul, all of the anger, the unfairness, the terror, the loss, all of it, coming faster and faster. “Fucking finally! A struggle worthy of the attempt!
“Fowler, your Master is the one I seek, but this night, I will take your life before his. Not for any other cause than it pleases me to do so.”
Fowler stood in front of him, his face sweating and angered, in pain and scorned. His pride offended, his pack affronted. “I will take your life and jewel, Bondservant!”
“No, wolf, you'll take one last breath. Then answer to the Goddess for the Curse you earned. I'll burn your flesh, wolf, while you're still alive to see it.”
Neal stood, hands away from his body, non-threatening. A smile on his lips.
Peter's sword clashed against first one, then another opposing sword. His fear viciously stamped down.
Both wolves strong and well-disciplined Guard. They fought with a practiced ease. They advanced on him. Forcing him away from Neal, toward the opposite wall.
He had never thought of a pack. To see a werewolf, just one, was a terrible thing. But a pack! Years in the making...
Peter never accounted for this. His wife held the wolf in their home, unable to reveal himself, unable to Turn. She and his team, awaiting his return, to give justice to the werewolf.
Yet here were more. A pack of them. Meaning that Elizabeth housed not just Kramer, but any or all of the Guard, capable of Turning.
Peter stamped down his fear, again. He stabbed the wolf to his left, shallow, but causing the man to misstep. Peter blocked the other man's blow, advancing on the left, harshly and quick. A final blow and the man fell to the ground, dead.
His fellow cried out. A moment of unfocused folly, Peter heartlessly took advantage and plunged his blade into the man's gut. The heat of the man's deathblood flooded against his hand.
The man fell near his companion.
He stared at them, werewolves. A pack of them. In the heart of the Queendom.
He lost himself, but a sudden cry called him back. Fowler stood with a silver throwing knife steaming and hissing in his thigh, deep into the bone.
Neal still stood, unmoved, blood flowing down his shoulder, his back, his stomach. All shallow wounds, but too many could kill.
“Peter, your skills are praiseworthy. Well done, Captain.” Neal spoke without a sign of pain. His posture seemed unfettered. His hands at his sides, eyes glowing fiercely, white were there should be blue.
Folwer, panting and blood-spilling, took notice of his pack mates, unmoving, dead. “Chattel! I'll fucking kill you!”
“Come at me, werewolf. Attack me, Kramer's whore. Give me the onslaught you've been promising me, you Goddess damned mindless beast.”
Fowler rose from his defensive stance. A slow movement, a grunt of pain escaping him, as he stood, an attack in the making.
Too slowly, Peter realized, the attack not meant for Neal, but himself.
Neal must have realized. “Peter!”
A movement, a blur passed by him, a winter wind in a dank cellar. But then the cold air seemed to be rushing into him, freezing him from the inside. A weakness causing his knees to collapse.
“Peter!” Neal sounded haunted. He looked at him, up at him; when had he laid down?
Author: robingal1
Pairing/characters: P/E/N
Spoilers: none
Warnings: cursing/blood/death/werewolves
Summary: AU where Neal is a man with a dark and tragic past, Peter is a Civil Enforcer, Elizabeth is a High Priestess, and Bugsy is a horse.
Author's note: Your choices define you. Therefore, in this AU, character choices will be different than those of the canon-verse, but the characteristics will remain. Constructive criticism highly welcomed.
His soul was confused. He had not used his Earthstone in years. Not since he quit the Guild, quit the Bondsman, quit his life. His life had been simple, boring at times, but with Kate by his side, a worthy exchange: his pride and powers in turn for a lifetime in peace with his love.
But now, Kate was gone. And his Earthstone, buried deep inside his heart, was the return of a rich wine to an absent alcoholic. The warm glow of it pulsing through him.
His senses heightened, his endurance nearly unending, and his obligation so perfectly clear before him.
His fingers itched to join the unavoidable battle. His knives, resting under his coat, held his Kate, his love, his vengeance, his relentless need to kill these murdering Goddess dammed beasts.
Peter, sword drawn, at his back, followed him to the cellar. That was a different challenge. The Enforcer should not be seeing these things, but his honesty, his integrity, was likely the only thing that might save his broken soul tonight.
Peter stood guard at the bottom of the steps, near the door once more. Neal scanned the damp and old cellar.
“They're here.” He whispered.
“The fleece? Flesh? The evidence we need?”
“Don't you smell that? The decay that never decays. The rot that never rots away. Flesh of the first kill.”
“Find it, then. I wish to... Neal? Do you hear that?”
“Hear what? I don't hear anything.”
“Exactly. I don't hear any more screaming coming from the farmhouse. They could be-”
“-On their way back?” A male voice, arrogance in every note. He had the smell of decay about him. He was wearing the flesh; he was going to Turn, tomorrow night, under the moon. Likely, he would Turn others tonight. More than the murdering woman laying dead upstairs, perhaps dozens.
“Fowler!” Peter spat the name at the Steward.
The man, Fowler, descended the stairs slowly. At his throat was a jewel, an Earthstone. Neal couldn't stop the gasp from his lungs.
“Shocked? I don't see why. We're the Civil Guard, fool. Of course we know about Bondservants.” He grinned wide. “We took precautions.” He gestured to the jewel. “I took this from the last Bondswoman. She screamed for days. Apparently, these aren't just for show; they are, in fact, bonded to each Bondservant. Finally, I just burned the flesh from her, and the jewel survived...” Fowler strutted the rest of the way into the cellar.
Neal stood still, eyes Seeing as two other wolves approached; they had no jewel; they stayed at the top stair, waiting for their orders.
His eyes were useless at Fowler. The wolf knew it.
But only a Master can Turn others. And Fowler was no Master. “You told the servant woman, likely many before, that you would Turn them. You promised them immortality, but you dangle the treat too far from them. They burn themselves out trying. Why keep them at all?” Neal never moved. His hands away from his body, kept at his sides. His voice low, level, peaceful.
“To watch them believe. They think that they can have this power. And when it comes time to Hunt... they will die from my teeth, and the sudden realization that they were always a play toy.
“The taste of the desperation, mixed with their crushed dreams... No meal can compare.”
Peter stood as Neal left him, near the bottom of the stairs. Kramer was a single step from him.
The Enforcer sigil still active, every sight, every sound, every sense made record, so long as Peter lived.
“And tonight, you prepare for the Hunt? Tomorrow, the moon full and bright. You'll run these fools into the ground and devour the sweetest meat?”
Fowler raised a brow. “Yes.” Ignoring Peter, coming closer, Fowler loomed over him. The decay was strong, years old. No matter how many layers of clothing, or strong perfumes, a scent that old could not be hidden. Peter must have been fighting not to gag, so near to the wolf and his flesh, his first kill from so long ago.
The man unsheathed his sword, an old blade, well kept, a soldier’s legacy proudly displayed. He casually brought the end to Neal's heart.
Neal leaned into the blade, the end sharp, biting. Blood soaked his shirt. “Can your feel it, wolf? The Earthstone? Just before your steel?” Neal felt his smile, a cruel and deadly thing, teeth and anger, a smile wide and uncaring.
“Fool, I will eat your eyes first.” Fowler lifted his sword, sudden and filled with wrath, a strike powerful and hungry aimed at his heart. The blow came fast and hard... but missed.
Instead, Fowler fell past Neal. He came to his feet quickly, preparing another blow. He roared as he lifted his sword above his head, and stopped, in pain. A burning, a deep, deep burning. “What?”
He pulled away, away from Neal, away from Peter, away from the door, away from his fellow wolves, against the cellar wall, panting. Neal smiled still, a feckless thing, built with malice.
“Felt that, did you?” Neal was steady, unmoved from his place in the damp earth, arms away from his body, a non-threat. “Does it hurt? No. It burns. A fire in your flesh. And it will never heal, wolf.”
Neal could feel it, the Earthstone. So long unused, screaming to be used again, beating against his heart, demanding, relentless, and so deadly.
Fowlwer, hand to his side, felt the blood seeping down is ribs from his armpit. His dominant arm hanging uselessly.
He looked to his wolves, who carefully entered the cellar. They had their swords at the ready. They had their flesh about them, wrapped and hidden against themselves.
Neal could See them with ease. Everything was easy. Goddess! Why had he ever put away his Earthstone?
“Peter, those two descending, they're only human this night, no matter how much they wish otherwise. The flesh they wear, it is weak and still new. They can not call on the strength of it. It takes years of bathing the rot in blood.” Peter stood with his sword at the ready, his breathing calm, and his displeasure clear. “They can not be reformed, Peter. They are feral.”
Fowler rose, steady and sure, ready to kill, to protect his pack from the Bondservant.
“You'll die. Both of you. I would have saved you for my Master, but tonight you die, Bondsman. I'll wear two stones!” He moved, swift, a ghost in the darkness.
His Earthstone useless against his speed, the Sister Earthstone blocking his Sight. But he had Kramer to kill; he was fueled with a fury Fowler could not touch, could not stand against. Fowler was going to fall this night, hard.
“Neal!” Peter shouted in warning, too late. The wolf hitting him across his back, a slash made for pain, to disarm, not to kill. Fowler meant for this to go on.
A shout of surprise and pain left him. “Neal!”
But Peter was unable to cross the cellar. The others were on him. Two on one, but evenly matched against the Captain.
Neal stood, pride and arrogance to match Kramer's. The Earthstone blocking the pain, giving him the strength to endure. “Don't worry, Peter.” His voice calm, his breathing peaceful. “Dispatch your quarry, Captain.”
Neal stood his ground against the wolf twice more. The darkness working to the wolf's advantage. His Sight useless.
He felt the madness so long held at bay clawing its way to the surface. His grief, his regrets, his broken soul, all of the anger, the unfairness, the terror, the loss, all of it, coming faster and faster. “Fucking finally! A struggle worthy of the attempt!
“Fowler, your Master is the one I seek, but this night, I will take your life before his. Not for any other cause than it pleases me to do so.”
Fowler stood in front of him, his face sweating and angered, in pain and scorned. His pride offended, his pack affronted. “I will take your life and jewel, Bondservant!”
“No, wolf, you'll take one last breath. Then answer to the Goddess for the Curse you earned. I'll burn your flesh, wolf, while you're still alive to see it.”
Neal stood, hands away from his body, non-threatening. A smile on his lips.
Peter's sword clashed against first one, then another opposing sword. His fear viciously stamped down.
Both wolves strong and well-disciplined Guard. They fought with a practiced ease. They advanced on him. Forcing him away from Neal, toward the opposite wall.
He had never thought of a pack. To see a werewolf, just one, was a terrible thing. But a pack! Years in the making...
Peter never accounted for this. His wife held the wolf in their home, unable to reveal himself, unable to Turn. She and his team, awaiting his return, to give justice to the werewolf.
Yet here were more. A pack of them. Meaning that Elizabeth housed not just Kramer, but any or all of the Guard, capable of Turning.
Peter stamped down his fear, again. He stabbed the wolf to his left, shallow, but causing the man to misstep. Peter blocked the other man's blow, advancing on the left, harshly and quick. A final blow and the man fell to the ground, dead.
His fellow cried out. A moment of unfocused folly, Peter heartlessly took advantage and plunged his blade into the man's gut. The heat of the man's deathblood flooded against his hand.
The man fell near his companion.
He stared at them, werewolves. A pack of them. In the heart of the Queendom.
He lost himself, but a sudden cry called him back. Fowler stood with a silver throwing knife steaming and hissing in his thigh, deep into the bone.
Neal still stood, unmoved, blood flowing down his shoulder, his back, his stomach. All shallow wounds, but too many could kill.
“Peter, your skills are praiseworthy. Well done, Captain.” Neal spoke without a sign of pain. His posture seemed unfettered. His hands at his sides, eyes glowing fiercely, white were there should be blue.
Folwer, panting and blood-spilling, took notice of his pack mates, unmoving, dead. “Chattel! I'll fucking kill you!”
“Come at me, werewolf. Attack me, Kramer's whore. Give me the onslaught you've been promising me, you Goddess damned mindless beast.”
Fowler rose from his defensive stance. A slow movement, a grunt of pain escaping him, as he stood, an attack in the making.
Too slowly, Peter realized, the attack not meant for Neal, but himself.
Neal must have realized. “Peter!”
A movement, a blur passed by him, a winter wind in a dank cellar. But then the cold air seemed to be rushing into him, freezing him from the inside. A weakness causing his knees to collapse.
“Peter!” Neal sounded haunted. He looked at him, up at him; when had he laid down?