Winter's Abyss Part 11/?
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.
Neal was floating beneath the surface of some cold lake, cold but peaceful. He rose to the filtered light slowly, cautiously. When he broke away, consciousness accosted him like a slap. He gasped, deep lungfuls and wanting more.
Then came the pain, the bursting light assaulting his eyes. He cried out, screamed against the sun.
“Neal?”
“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” He held himself still, tears flowing from his tightly shut eyes, hands blocking the too bright light.
“Tell me, or I can't help.” Peter. Peter was here, in this too loud place, too bright, too alive.
“My eyes! It's too bright! Leave me alone, Peter.” He curled further into himself. His stomach rebelling, and with no more warning, he retched violently. Over and over, bile and sour.
When he was left panting and spent, Peter took him by the shoulders, guided him down. Wet snow beneath him, bird song above him, too loud.
“Would water help?”
Neal thought about it; measuring the merits of cooling his throat verses the risk of igniting his stomach again. “Best not.”
“If I didn't know any better, I’d say you were hungover.”
“Goddess, kill me.” He rolled back into a ball of misery.
Peter pressed a cool cloth against his eyes, and began wrapping his eyes away from the damned sun. A sigh, deep and heartfelt escaping him.
“Is this why the windows were covered? Does earth magic use you up? Leave you like this?”
He ignored the question entirely. “Where are we?”
Peter sighed, loudly, everything too loud. “Just off the main road. A passing delivery stopped and left for help. She left a blanket to tear into bandages. You're going to need stitches.”
He hummed to show he was listening.
“I'm not so cruel to ask, about what happened, about what I saw, but expect it soon.”
He groaned.
“It was made record. Others will ask if I don't. If you want protection from them, you'll stay by me.” Peter rubbed the nape of his neck, just above where Fowler's sword had glanced him. “Don't leave my side, Neal.”
He meant to respond, but the soothing relief Peter provided, the exhaustion, the unwillingness to face the too bright world, he slipped away, back under the cold lake.
o0o
“Mozzie?!!?” Peter stared. “What? Why? How!”
He watched as Neal's friend from earlier climbed down from the ambulance. The enchanted coach swayed, its heated wheels causing steam where they met snow. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping, obviously.” Mozzie went to the rear of the open top coach, opening some compartment, rummaging for Goddess knew what. “How bad was it?” Not an easy question, the man didn't want to ask, but clearly had to.
Peter watched as the smaller man knelt next to Neal. His actions were well practiced; he may have been squeamish at the blooded bandages, but his experience with mending was evident.
Peter held the oblivious Neal, assisting the man as he quietly stitched the many wounds closed. “Bad. It was nothing I could have predicted. There was so much death, so much destruction...” Peter swallowed against the memories as they rose from deep inside him. He pushed the thoughts away, best not to think on it until he felt safe. Perhaps once he arrived home, wrapped in El's arms, with several beers in him.
They worked in silence, stitching, cleaning, and wrapping in better bandages than the torn blanket from before. They carried him into the ambulance, settling him carefully on the heated rest. Next came a blanket, healing charms embroidered, thick, heavy, and smelling of herbs.
“What about the horses?” Peter looked over at his Taurus, Bugsy by his side, both tethered to the tree that he and Neal had been resting under.
“Leave them. They'll be cared for.”
“I want them back! Not 'cared for'. They will be returned. Say it!”
A heavy sigh, followed by a short bow of the head. “I will see to it that your mounts are returned to you. Happy?”
Peter grunted in reply as he placed his and Neal's saddle and bags in the coach, then sat next to the hurt man. Wrapping himself in the second blanket. Mozzie returned the supplies to the rear of the coach. “What about his eyes?” He asked as the other man ambled into the driver's seat, taking the reins.
“The enchantments in the fabric will help faster than anything here.”
“Damn! He used it, earlier, healing me.”
Mozzie turned, not yet ordering the horses. A long stare, contemplating and sad. “Idiot. I gave it to him to...”
“When? I've been with him- Ah. At the gambling house? You grabbed him, a faint. That was a well done plant, Guildsman. I wonder if even he knew until later.” Despite the severity of everything, Peter found himself amused by the shorter man.
“It was for him, Enforcer. He wouldn't have needed my continued services had he just used it on himself.” He sounded bitter, hurt. He was placing blame for Neal's injuries on Peter.
It should irritate him; but only a friend would come out at first light, steal an ambulance, and snap at anything for fear of losing a friend. This Mozzie may be odd, an outlaw, and clearly lacking in scruples, but loyal.
The powerful horses at the front, trained to make haste and ignore the snow melting under their enchanted shod hooves, rushed forward.
Peter buried himself deeper under his own blanket. Delayed shock was a real concern. He should probably stay warm and hydrate. No sooner had he thought, than Mozzie passed him a thermos filled with a rich coffee.
“Goddess in glory! I've never tasted such a brew!”
The man made a small laugh. “Of course you haven't, it's fresh from Queen June's pantry.”
He could feel his eyes widen with shock. He was drinking the most amazing treachery. He was reviling in the stolen goods from the Queen herself.
He looked about the fast moving coach; few manorfolk were about on the streets, no one to witness his treason; he finished the brew.
Within a surprisingly short span, they were outside the borders of Burke, heading toward the gates to leave Washington of the DC.
“Mozzie. Perhaps this is where you should get off. You know where we're heading. You don't know what we'll be facing. You've done enough.”
Mozzie never turned from his seat. “You'd be surprised how far certain resources go.”
“Mozzie, we go to face a Makerwolf. A man I have known, when human, to be ruthlessly intelligent and uncompromising in his affairs. What Neal and I faced last night...” Goddess! Had it only been last night?
His throat closed, his mind back in that dark cellar, breath coming too fast and not enough, his lungs burning, mind whirling.
“Peter!” Mozzie, calling him back to the present. He was slight in his morals, but loyal.
“I'm fine.” His voice was faint. He tried again. “If you mean to accompany us, to give justice to Kramer, then let's be off.”
No more was said between them. They rode on, the sun weak in warmth, the low clouds too many. Peter watched the Queen's castle shrink smaller and smaller behind them.
The Queen. Her own Lord was a werewolf, protected by her Civil Guard. Who else in the Royal Cabinet could be a part of this? How many Lords and Ladies, Governors, Judges, Officials of any sort had been Turned? Did the Queen know?
Goddess and Hell! How long had it been since anyone had seen her? She had locked herself away when her High Mage Byron had died. No one had seen her in...
The possibilities were too many for one Civil Enforcer. The Guildsman may have his resources, so too for the sleeping Bondservant, but three against a conspiracy?
Peter tuned away from the main gate, as they departed the jewel of the Queendom. The pressure in his heart breaking him. He watched the trees pass, the clouds float, anything but where he had been; anything but where he was going.
Peter was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been.
The coach went on.
o0o
His eyes burned behind the bandage. The headache was expected, the nausea was usual, and the various cuts were normal. They would heal within a few nights, a slow but thorough healing.
But it was clear how far from sane he had gone, how far he had willingly allowed himself. His sore body was testament to his hubris. He had never used the Earthstone for so long, never used it so fully. Perhaps Master Byron was right, all those years ago, anger makes for mistakes; mistakes make for graves.
He deserved death. Some honest part of him, the shattered part that could not-would not- mourn and move on from his Kate, still craved it. He had been more than reckless, he had been foolish. Damned near lead Peter to his death.
Mozzie's generosity and his better, calmer thinking had been what spared him, not Neal. The shame of it burned.
He had been reckless, where Peter was honorable.
But was Kate's life not worthy of vengeance? Would Peter's justice give him back his Kate?
Would vengeance?
His limbs were as useless as his eyes. Too debilitated to hold the weak and herbed tea to his lips, Peter held it for him, then feeding him bits of soft fruit. The chill night wind blew through the coach, causing him to sink lower into his blanket. “I miss Satchmo. He was warmer.”
They had stopped for the night. He didn't know if the stars were out, but he knew the moon was; full and powerful. Peter would likely be thinking on it all night, while thinking of his wife.
His incredibly beautiful, smart, strong, passionate, fearsome...
But for all those qualities and more, even with all of the village's Enforcers at her side, she was no match for Kramer and his unknown number of werewolves.
Peter, honorable, brave, and strong, was feeding him; while his wife, his home, and all that he loved was being threatened. The shame returned, ten fold.
“Peter, we should go. We can't stay.”
“The horses can't see, too dark; we'll leave at first light.” His voice was tight and stressed. Rationality warring with his need.
Neal didn't know what to say, only nodding.
He was still on his perch in the ambulance. Mozzie had come for him, was escorting him to the York of Newness. Never one for outward displays of emotion, he simply pat his leg as he bedded down in the warmed foot well of the coach.
Peter made him finish the tea, then left to tend to the horses. Keeping busy, too unsettled to sleep.
“Mozzie?” He called out softly.
“I’m tired. I've been driving your battered self all day, Neal. What?” The irritation was feigned, but the exhaustion wasn't.
“Don't do this. Escort us, but then leave us.
“You owe me nothing, friend. Whatever debts we had, whatever past we shared, I leave it here.
“I have no plans to see another full moon; this fight will be my last. But nor do I have plans to see another friend die.” Tears came, too weak to wipe them away, they escaped his bandaged eyes. “Please, Moz? Don't do this. Don't go to watch me die.
“We parted long ago, a lifetime ago. I need to know that at least one person who loves me still lives. Give me that. Give me the peace to know my life has served at least one person.”
Mozzie's only answer was silence.
Shame, fear, and hurt made for a poor lullaby on a cold and desperate night.
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.
Neal was floating beneath the surface of some cold lake, cold but peaceful. He rose to the filtered light slowly, cautiously. When he broke away, consciousness accosted him like a slap. He gasped, deep lungfuls and wanting more.
Then came the pain, the bursting light assaulting his eyes. He cried out, screamed against the sun.
“Neal?”
“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” He held himself still, tears flowing from his tightly shut eyes, hands blocking the too bright light.
“Tell me, or I can't help.” Peter. Peter was here, in this too loud place, too bright, too alive.
“My eyes! It's too bright! Leave me alone, Peter.” He curled further into himself. His stomach rebelling, and with no more warning, he retched violently. Over and over, bile and sour.
When he was left panting and spent, Peter took him by the shoulders, guided him down. Wet snow beneath him, bird song above him, too loud.
“Would water help?”
Neal thought about it; measuring the merits of cooling his throat verses the risk of igniting his stomach again. “Best not.”
“If I didn't know any better, I’d say you were hungover.”
“Goddess, kill me.” He rolled back into a ball of misery.
Peter pressed a cool cloth against his eyes, and began wrapping his eyes away from the damned sun. A sigh, deep and heartfelt escaping him.
“Is this why the windows were covered? Does earth magic use you up? Leave you like this?”
He ignored the question entirely. “Where are we?”
Peter sighed, loudly, everything too loud. “Just off the main road. A passing delivery stopped and left for help. She left a blanket to tear into bandages. You're going to need stitches.”
He hummed to show he was listening.
“I'm not so cruel to ask, about what happened, about what I saw, but expect it soon.”
He groaned.
“It was made record. Others will ask if I don't. If you want protection from them, you'll stay by me.” Peter rubbed the nape of his neck, just above where Fowler's sword had glanced him. “Don't leave my side, Neal.”
He meant to respond, but the soothing relief Peter provided, the exhaustion, the unwillingness to face the too bright world, he slipped away, back under the cold lake.
o0o
“Mozzie?!!?” Peter stared. “What? Why? How!”
He watched as Neal's friend from earlier climbed down from the ambulance. The enchanted coach swayed, its heated wheels causing steam where they met snow. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping, obviously.” Mozzie went to the rear of the open top coach, opening some compartment, rummaging for Goddess knew what. “How bad was it?” Not an easy question, the man didn't want to ask, but clearly had to.
Peter watched as the smaller man knelt next to Neal. His actions were well practiced; he may have been squeamish at the blooded bandages, but his experience with mending was evident.
Peter held the oblivious Neal, assisting the man as he quietly stitched the many wounds closed. “Bad. It was nothing I could have predicted. There was so much death, so much destruction...” Peter swallowed against the memories as they rose from deep inside him. He pushed the thoughts away, best not to think on it until he felt safe. Perhaps once he arrived home, wrapped in El's arms, with several beers in him.
They worked in silence, stitching, cleaning, and wrapping in better bandages than the torn blanket from before. They carried him into the ambulance, settling him carefully on the heated rest. Next came a blanket, healing charms embroidered, thick, heavy, and smelling of herbs.
“What about the horses?” Peter looked over at his Taurus, Bugsy by his side, both tethered to the tree that he and Neal had been resting under.
“Leave them. They'll be cared for.”
“I want them back! Not 'cared for'. They will be returned. Say it!”
A heavy sigh, followed by a short bow of the head. “I will see to it that your mounts are returned to you. Happy?”
Peter grunted in reply as he placed his and Neal's saddle and bags in the coach, then sat next to the hurt man. Wrapping himself in the second blanket. Mozzie returned the supplies to the rear of the coach. “What about his eyes?” He asked as the other man ambled into the driver's seat, taking the reins.
“The enchantments in the fabric will help faster than anything here.”
“Damn! He used it, earlier, healing me.”
Mozzie turned, not yet ordering the horses. A long stare, contemplating and sad. “Idiot. I gave it to him to...”
“When? I've been with him- Ah. At the gambling house? You grabbed him, a faint. That was a well done plant, Guildsman. I wonder if even he knew until later.” Despite the severity of everything, Peter found himself amused by the shorter man.
“It was for him, Enforcer. He wouldn't have needed my continued services had he just used it on himself.” He sounded bitter, hurt. He was placing blame for Neal's injuries on Peter.
It should irritate him; but only a friend would come out at first light, steal an ambulance, and snap at anything for fear of losing a friend. This Mozzie may be odd, an outlaw, and clearly lacking in scruples, but loyal.
The powerful horses at the front, trained to make haste and ignore the snow melting under their enchanted shod hooves, rushed forward.
Peter buried himself deeper under his own blanket. Delayed shock was a real concern. He should probably stay warm and hydrate. No sooner had he thought, than Mozzie passed him a thermos filled with a rich coffee.
“Goddess in glory! I've never tasted such a brew!”
The man made a small laugh. “Of course you haven't, it's fresh from Queen June's pantry.”
He could feel his eyes widen with shock. He was drinking the most amazing treachery. He was reviling in the stolen goods from the Queen herself.
He looked about the fast moving coach; few manorfolk were about on the streets, no one to witness his treason; he finished the brew.
Within a surprisingly short span, they were outside the borders of Burke, heading toward the gates to leave Washington of the DC.
“Mozzie. Perhaps this is where you should get off. You know where we're heading. You don't know what we'll be facing. You've done enough.”
Mozzie never turned from his seat. “You'd be surprised how far certain resources go.”
“Mozzie, we go to face a Makerwolf. A man I have known, when human, to be ruthlessly intelligent and uncompromising in his affairs. What Neal and I faced last night...” Goddess! Had it only been last night?
His throat closed, his mind back in that dark cellar, breath coming too fast and not enough, his lungs burning, mind whirling.
“Peter!” Mozzie, calling him back to the present. He was slight in his morals, but loyal.
“I'm fine.” His voice was faint. He tried again. “If you mean to accompany us, to give justice to Kramer, then let's be off.”
No more was said between them. They rode on, the sun weak in warmth, the low clouds too many. Peter watched the Queen's castle shrink smaller and smaller behind them.
The Queen. Her own Lord was a werewolf, protected by her Civil Guard. Who else in the Royal Cabinet could be a part of this? How many Lords and Ladies, Governors, Judges, Officials of any sort had been Turned? Did the Queen know?
Goddess and Hell! How long had it been since anyone had seen her? She had locked herself away when her High Mage Byron had died. No one had seen her in...
The possibilities were too many for one Civil Enforcer. The Guildsman may have his resources, so too for the sleeping Bondservant, but three against a conspiracy?
Peter tuned away from the main gate, as they departed the jewel of the Queendom. The pressure in his heart breaking him. He watched the trees pass, the clouds float, anything but where he had been; anything but where he was going.
Peter was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been.
The coach went on.
o0o
His eyes burned behind the bandage. The headache was expected, the nausea was usual, and the various cuts were normal. They would heal within a few nights, a slow but thorough healing.
But it was clear how far from sane he had gone, how far he had willingly allowed himself. His sore body was testament to his hubris. He had never used the Earthstone for so long, never used it so fully. Perhaps Master Byron was right, all those years ago, anger makes for mistakes; mistakes make for graves.
He deserved death. Some honest part of him, the shattered part that could not-would not- mourn and move on from his Kate, still craved it. He had been more than reckless, he had been foolish. Damned near lead Peter to his death.
Mozzie's generosity and his better, calmer thinking had been what spared him, not Neal. The shame of it burned.
He had been reckless, where Peter was honorable.
But was Kate's life not worthy of vengeance? Would Peter's justice give him back his Kate?
Would vengeance?
His limbs were as useless as his eyes. Too debilitated to hold the weak and herbed tea to his lips, Peter held it for him, then feeding him bits of soft fruit. The chill night wind blew through the coach, causing him to sink lower into his blanket. “I miss Satchmo. He was warmer.”
They had stopped for the night. He didn't know if the stars were out, but he knew the moon was; full and powerful. Peter would likely be thinking on it all night, while thinking of his wife.
His incredibly beautiful, smart, strong, passionate, fearsome...
But for all those qualities and more, even with all of the village's Enforcers at her side, she was no match for Kramer and his unknown number of werewolves.
Peter, honorable, brave, and strong, was feeding him; while his wife, his home, and all that he loved was being threatened. The shame returned, ten fold.
“Peter, we should go. We can't stay.”
“The horses can't see, too dark; we'll leave at first light.” His voice was tight and stressed. Rationality warring with his need.
Neal didn't know what to say, only nodding.
He was still on his perch in the ambulance. Mozzie had come for him, was escorting him to the York of Newness. Never one for outward displays of emotion, he simply pat his leg as he bedded down in the warmed foot well of the coach.
Peter made him finish the tea, then left to tend to the horses. Keeping busy, too unsettled to sleep.
“Mozzie?” He called out softly.
“I’m tired. I've been driving your battered self all day, Neal. What?” The irritation was feigned, but the exhaustion wasn't.
“Don't do this. Escort us, but then leave us.
“You owe me nothing, friend. Whatever debts we had, whatever past we shared, I leave it here.
“I have no plans to see another full moon; this fight will be my last. But nor do I have plans to see another friend die.” Tears came, too weak to wipe them away, they escaped his bandaged eyes. “Please, Moz? Don't do this. Don't go to watch me die.
“We parted long ago, a lifetime ago. I need to know that at least one person who loves me still lives. Give me that. Give me the peace to know my life has served at least one person.”
Mozzie's only answer was silence.
Shame, fear, and hurt made for a poor lullaby on a cold and desperate night.