Winter's Abyss Part 12/?
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.
Elizabeth had given up sleeping. She had seen her lordly guest to his chamber, but sleep would not find her. Instead, she sat atop the highest spot on the mountaintop, gazing down at the still sleeping village.
From her secret vantage, shown to her by Hughes; before he, his wife, and her mistress left for places unknown. She tried diligently to ease her chaotic mind.
Worry plagued her. The full moon had spent all night casting shadows and fears. And morning was dawning with little hope for the renewal she so deeply sought.
She had prayed to the Goddess, again and again; to intervene, to save her people from those that She Cursed to walk as beasts.
Thus far, all her praying had accomplished was another sleepless night and a migraine.
Sighing, again, she watched her home. The shoppes would open soon, the university would resume its lectures, and the farmers and miners would begin their days.
So lost in her thoughts, she had not sensed the mountain spirit approach. He was sudden in his appearance, worried. Something was urgent, and he came to her, needing her.
“Spirit? Satchmo? What is-” The demon hound lifted her by her hood, lifting her to her feet. With no words wasted, she followed his lead, running recklessly down the mountain. Past her home, with the werewolf inside; past the tents splayed on her and Peter's lawn, filled with Guard loyal to Kramer and not the Queen; past the shoppes and the Chapel and then past the village proper.
Satchmo steered her steps in the feeble winter dawn's light, giving her strength through the earth; she never tired, and kept abreast with him. Her heart pounding, not with the exertion, but with the fear that something could so unsettle her mountain spirit.
He grew smaller and dimmed as they fast approached the border stones. He stopped suddenly; El did the same.
An ork came out from behind a tree, terrifying in his war paint. He raised his sword in threat, making it clear that he would not allow her to pass.
“Blake? Is that you?”
“Priestess?” He lowered his sword.
“That's High... never mind. Send word to your camp, the spirit and I must pass.” She made it very evident that this was an order; and it would be followed.
Within a fleeting span they were off, passing trees and hidden orks, until they arrived at the border stones, marking the end of the mountain and the beginning of the valley.
She looked over to see Satchmo's tiny ears straining to hear.
El left the spirit, entering the valley, Satchmo whining behind her.
She took some few steps more, but only the wind in the trees greeting her.
Looking back at Satchmo, his gold glow faint, she saw his face. He was grinning, whining as a hound would for his master to come home, his tail slowly wagging.
The realization struck her. Peter! Goddess! Her husband, home!
Horses and carriage sounded in the distance. Then, a bend in the valley revealed an ambulance rushing, six horses racing toward her.
She found herself afraid. Ambulances were a common sight, rushing to the Sacred Springs for healing; was Peter in need? Was he hurt?
She rushed to meet the coach alongside the road, careful not to be trampled by the speeding horses. The driver, a small man dressed in exotic clothing, unlike any medic she had ever met, saw her and slowed the wagon, then stopped it.
“El? El! Queen's Tit! El!” Peter, her husband, her beautiful love, rushed down from the coach, his arms tightened around her. She held him. She wrapped herself around him and shouted in joy.
o0o
Peter held his wife. He worshiped her scent, the weight of her in his arms, and the precious love, powerful love, vast love that could only come from her. The unique being of El, in his arms, alive, whole, and perfectly imperfect.
“Peter?” She called him out of his reverie. “Are you alright? Did you get the fleece? Are the Royal Guard coming?”
He held her some while more before answering. “No, love. There is a greater danger than I could have ever predicted. El...” His throat closed, leaving him dry and withered.
She looked at him, eyes seeing the fear that he couldn't voice. She stepped away, held his hand, and gave him a span to collect himself, but not letting go.
Had it been only days since his departure? The loss of her by his side was too raw in the face of such a revelation as what he'd witnessed. What he had made record.
“We need to find someplace, away from the village, away from Kramer and his Guard. I need to somehow get word to my team. I need to-”
“Love, come. Satchmo is going to tear down his mountain if you don't greet him. We will see to Neal and your friend in the coach. And then we will take each step as it reveals itself.” She moved, pulling him with her, up to the coach. “Who are you, sir driver?”
“You may call me Mozzie. And I think the fewer questions asked, the fewer lies told, High Priestess.” The shorter man smiled, turned, and drove the horses forward.
She sat, pleased with the heated seats. “He's a bit strange.” She smiled as she said it. Like a cat with a new toy, a prey to treasure before eating.
“He's a friend of Neal's. I know he's ThievesGuild, but more than that...”
She began assessing the blindfolded sleeping man. “He has lost blood, Peter. And there is a deep puncture wound at his heart.”
Peter grimaced. He didn't know how much to say in front of the Guildsman. He and Neal seemed close, but a Guildsman is never a trustworthy friend, only an expedient one.
They crossed the border stones and the sudden addition of a wagging, excited, energetic mountain spirit took all of his attention. The demon hound was enthusiastically licking and whining. His smaller, faded body dancing on his lap.
“El! El! There's a mountain spirit on my lap. Am I dying? El?”
She laughed, her eyes tearing. She reached out and pet the ancient beast atop his head and under his chin.
Satchmo panted and licked her, leaving his tongue lolling.
“It would seem that those he likes, he likes.” She said with the same simplicity she always did, easily accepting miracles as expected results.
He looked up at Mozzie, who seemed unable to comprehend what he was seeing. That made two of them.
“High Priestess, where am I going?”
The mountain spirit decided for them. A rumble from somewhere ahead, near the small spring-fed pond, too deep in the forest for any villager, too far from the village proper.
“Peter! He made a trail for us.” The wonder in her voice held more excitement than awe. He smiled. Goddess, but he loved this woman!
Mozzie slowly, cautiously, drove the horses toward the lake. His hands shook, though not from the cold. The demon hound was often subtle in his dominion over his home, but when he chose to engage with the commonplace lives of others, it could humble the proudest of fools.
They arrived in a short span. The lake was an undisturbed wonder. Small and deep, clear to the bottom, and filled with life. Water sprites danced atop the thin ice near the shore. The trees formed quietly behind them, masking their trail.
Peter gasped, the honor Satchmo gave him, it took his breath.
The coach stopped under an overhanging ledge, a stable made from the earth, just large enough for six horses and a stolen ambulance.
Satchmo, now the size of large family hound, gave him one more swipe at the neck, then favored El with the same.
Mozzie lept from the driver's bench before the coach had come to a complete stop. He immediately went about unhitching the horses, and gathering fire wood, and doing any number of things that kept him busy. Clearly, the mountain spirit, an eager and friendly one at that, was too unsettling.
Satchmo went and sat near the lake shore, waiting. Peter went to assist El with Neal. They lowered him to the ground, undressed him, removed his bandages, undressed themselves, and carried him to the water.
Satchmo sniffed the dying man head to foot, lingering over the man's bleeding heart. He licked the wound, as any hound would for it's packmate. Truly, this Earthstone was a favored magic for the mountain spirit. Yet another question to ask of the Master Neal.
Together they lowered him into the water. It began glowing at the quiescence man's touch, the stones beneath their feet ignited with light and heat. The ice that floated near the shore melted. The air became steam around them.
Mozzie gasped a shocked curse somewhere near the shore.
El sat, cross legged, supporting Neal's head.
Peter called the sprites to Neal. They came with frightening speed, swarming.
El guided the water sprites to the stitched wounds, the air sprites to his lungs, and the earth sprites to this mind and soul.
The water sprites melted the waxed threads that marred him; the air sprites entered him, expanding his chest; but the earth sprites only hovered nearby. They came, they wished to touch, but they instead floated near him, agitated.
His wounds healed far faster than expected.
“Peter, I have never seen this. Only Cursed beings cannot be touched by the earth sprites. But Neal is not Cursed, or Satchmo would not tolerate the touch of him.
“And now, here his skin seems untouched, free from even the slightest scars. The sprites are doing little more than speeding along an already ongoing healing.”
Peter thought back, to all that he had seen Neal do, the magic he called at will, his sure knowledge of werewolves and their habits, and the death he left in his wake.
“He is a Bondservant, a werewolf hunter. He fought a man at least six years Cursed. He used a speed too quick for even the wolf to see. He can cast without blood or circle. El, what he can do, what he's done... The man is strength and stealth; he's deadly.
“El, I'm scared.”
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.
Elizabeth had given up sleeping. She had seen her lordly guest to his chamber, but sleep would not find her. Instead, she sat atop the highest spot on the mountaintop, gazing down at the still sleeping village.
From her secret vantage, shown to her by Hughes; before he, his wife, and her mistress left for places unknown. She tried diligently to ease her chaotic mind.
Worry plagued her. The full moon had spent all night casting shadows and fears. And morning was dawning with little hope for the renewal she so deeply sought.
She had prayed to the Goddess, again and again; to intervene, to save her people from those that She Cursed to walk as beasts.
Thus far, all her praying had accomplished was another sleepless night and a migraine.
Sighing, again, she watched her home. The shoppes would open soon, the university would resume its lectures, and the farmers and miners would begin their days.
So lost in her thoughts, she had not sensed the mountain spirit approach. He was sudden in his appearance, worried. Something was urgent, and he came to her, needing her.
“Spirit? Satchmo? What is-” The demon hound lifted her by her hood, lifting her to her feet. With no words wasted, she followed his lead, running recklessly down the mountain. Past her home, with the werewolf inside; past the tents splayed on her and Peter's lawn, filled with Guard loyal to Kramer and not the Queen; past the shoppes and the Chapel and then past the village proper.
Satchmo steered her steps in the feeble winter dawn's light, giving her strength through the earth; she never tired, and kept abreast with him. Her heart pounding, not with the exertion, but with the fear that something could so unsettle her mountain spirit.
He grew smaller and dimmed as they fast approached the border stones. He stopped suddenly; El did the same.
An ork came out from behind a tree, terrifying in his war paint. He raised his sword in threat, making it clear that he would not allow her to pass.
“Blake? Is that you?”
“Priestess?” He lowered his sword.
“That's High... never mind. Send word to your camp, the spirit and I must pass.” She made it very evident that this was an order; and it would be followed.
Within a fleeting span they were off, passing trees and hidden orks, until they arrived at the border stones, marking the end of the mountain and the beginning of the valley.
She looked over to see Satchmo's tiny ears straining to hear.
El left the spirit, entering the valley, Satchmo whining behind her.
She took some few steps more, but only the wind in the trees greeting her.
Looking back at Satchmo, his gold glow faint, she saw his face. He was grinning, whining as a hound would for his master to come home, his tail slowly wagging.
The realization struck her. Peter! Goddess! Her husband, home!
Horses and carriage sounded in the distance. Then, a bend in the valley revealed an ambulance rushing, six horses racing toward her.
She found herself afraid. Ambulances were a common sight, rushing to the Sacred Springs for healing; was Peter in need? Was he hurt?
She rushed to meet the coach alongside the road, careful not to be trampled by the speeding horses. The driver, a small man dressed in exotic clothing, unlike any medic she had ever met, saw her and slowed the wagon, then stopped it.
“El? El! Queen's Tit! El!” Peter, her husband, her beautiful love, rushed down from the coach, his arms tightened around her. She held him. She wrapped herself around him and shouted in joy.
o0o
Peter held his wife. He worshiped her scent, the weight of her in his arms, and the precious love, powerful love, vast love that could only come from her. The unique being of El, in his arms, alive, whole, and perfectly imperfect.
“Peter?” She called him out of his reverie. “Are you alright? Did you get the fleece? Are the Royal Guard coming?”
He held her some while more before answering. “No, love. There is a greater danger than I could have ever predicted. El...” His throat closed, leaving him dry and withered.
She looked at him, eyes seeing the fear that he couldn't voice. She stepped away, held his hand, and gave him a span to collect himself, but not letting go.
Had it been only days since his departure? The loss of her by his side was too raw in the face of such a revelation as what he'd witnessed. What he had made record.
“We need to find someplace, away from the village, away from Kramer and his Guard. I need to somehow get word to my team. I need to-”
“Love, come. Satchmo is going to tear down his mountain if you don't greet him. We will see to Neal and your friend in the coach. And then we will take each step as it reveals itself.” She moved, pulling him with her, up to the coach. “Who are you, sir driver?”
“You may call me Mozzie. And I think the fewer questions asked, the fewer lies told, High Priestess.” The shorter man smiled, turned, and drove the horses forward.
She sat, pleased with the heated seats. “He's a bit strange.” She smiled as she said it. Like a cat with a new toy, a prey to treasure before eating.
“He's a friend of Neal's. I know he's ThievesGuild, but more than that...”
She began assessing the blindfolded sleeping man. “He has lost blood, Peter. And there is a deep puncture wound at his heart.”
Peter grimaced. He didn't know how much to say in front of the Guildsman. He and Neal seemed close, but a Guildsman is never a trustworthy friend, only an expedient one.
They crossed the border stones and the sudden addition of a wagging, excited, energetic mountain spirit took all of his attention. The demon hound was enthusiastically licking and whining. His smaller, faded body dancing on his lap.
“El! El! There's a mountain spirit on my lap. Am I dying? El?”
She laughed, her eyes tearing. She reached out and pet the ancient beast atop his head and under his chin.
Satchmo panted and licked her, leaving his tongue lolling.
“It would seem that those he likes, he likes.” She said with the same simplicity she always did, easily accepting miracles as expected results.
He looked up at Mozzie, who seemed unable to comprehend what he was seeing. That made two of them.
“High Priestess, where am I going?”
The mountain spirit decided for them. A rumble from somewhere ahead, near the small spring-fed pond, too deep in the forest for any villager, too far from the village proper.
“Peter! He made a trail for us.” The wonder in her voice held more excitement than awe. He smiled. Goddess, but he loved this woman!
Mozzie slowly, cautiously, drove the horses toward the lake. His hands shook, though not from the cold. The demon hound was often subtle in his dominion over his home, but when he chose to engage with the commonplace lives of others, it could humble the proudest of fools.
They arrived in a short span. The lake was an undisturbed wonder. Small and deep, clear to the bottom, and filled with life. Water sprites danced atop the thin ice near the shore. The trees formed quietly behind them, masking their trail.
Peter gasped, the honor Satchmo gave him, it took his breath.
The coach stopped under an overhanging ledge, a stable made from the earth, just large enough for six horses and a stolen ambulance.
Satchmo, now the size of large family hound, gave him one more swipe at the neck, then favored El with the same.
Mozzie lept from the driver's bench before the coach had come to a complete stop. He immediately went about unhitching the horses, and gathering fire wood, and doing any number of things that kept him busy. Clearly, the mountain spirit, an eager and friendly one at that, was too unsettling.
Satchmo went and sat near the lake shore, waiting. Peter went to assist El with Neal. They lowered him to the ground, undressed him, removed his bandages, undressed themselves, and carried him to the water.
Satchmo sniffed the dying man head to foot, lingering over the man's bleeding heart. He licked the wound, as any hound would for it's packmate. Truly, this Earthstone was a favored magic for the mountain spirit. Yet another question to ask of the Master Neal.
Together they lowered him into the water. It began glowing at the quiescence man's touch, the stones beneath their feet ignited with light and heat. The ice that floated near the shore melted. The air became steam around them.
Mozzie gasped a shocked curse somewhere near the shore.
El sat, cross legged, supporting Neal's head.
Peter called the sprites to Neal. They came with frightening speed, swarming.
El guided the water sprites to the stitched wounds, the air sprites to his lungs, and the earth sprites to this mind and soul.
The water sprites melted the waxed threads that marred him; the air sprites entered him, expanding his chest; but the earth sprites only hovered nearby. They came, they wished to touch, but they instead floated near him, agitated.
His wounds healed far faster than expected.
“Peter, I have never seen this. Only Cursed beings cannot be touched by the earth sprites. But Neal is not Cursed, or Satchmo would not tolerate the touch of him.
“And now, here his skin seems untouched, free from even the slightest scars. The sprites are doing little more than speeding along an already ongoing healing.”
Peter thought back, to all that he had seen Neal do, the magic he called at will, his sure knowledge of werewolves and their habits, and the death he left in his wake.
“He is a Bondservant, a werewolf hunter. He fought a man at least six years Cursed. He used a speed too quick for even the wolf to see. He can cast without blood or circle. El, what he can do, what he's done... The man is strength and stealth; he's deadly.
“El, I'm scared.”