Winter's Abyss Part 8/?
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, High Priestess of the Goddess, Healer, and Caretaker of the Holy Springs, cursed with a passion as she emerged from the woods toward the valley.
The moon, nearing its zenith, cast light enough to guide her to the valley below.
The noble Lord Kramer had been encouraged to watch the local singers perform an impromptu concert. Elizabeth had feigned important business, and sadly, could not attend.
She cast a simple glamor against the Guard tasked with escorting her, and made way to meet with her newest allies.
She often times went back over her tracks, or purposely went through the thick weeds, anything she could think of to hide her snowy tracks.
Thorns had pierced her, sticks had torn her coat, and she had slipped in the freezing mud, causing her clothes to stick to her.
The High Priestess used the most creative of curses as she blundered into the small camp set near the border stones that separated the valley from her mountain home.
“Priestess?” A voice called out to her in greeting. “You curse?”
“That's High Priestess. And by the ass-puckering flames of hell, fuck, yes I damn well curse!” She paused, taking in the sight of the tall ork. “Fuck and Tits! Does anyone in your camp have a damn beer?”
Hunter Alex, leader of the ork tribe, raised her brows. Speechless, she looked to her nearby associate, and watched her fetch the ordered beer.
Elizabeth followed Alex into the camp. She was always astounded at the grace in a creature so massive. Her clothing was sensible but heavily jeweled. Her long black hair was kept neatly pined in a complicated style. But most striking were her hands, stronger than any human, but so delicate to hold a baby bird.
They exchanged a few pleasantries, shared the expensive beer, and spent the rest of the night arguing.
“Enough!” Alex stood, many of the campers nervous, not wanting a blood-spilling. “You know what I want! My father died to find the treasure in your mountain, and I mean to honor him! Admit my party unto your mountain, El!”
Elizabeth, more than slightly drunk, and ecstatic with the idea of a Goddess damned fight, threw her head back to stare all the way up at the taller woman. The fire casting her teeth larger and sharper than El had previously thought.
“No.” El belched. The camp froze. “First, not my mountain. The mountain spirit has killed one of yours in warning when you tried to search his mountain. That, Alex, was dumb and greedy.
“Next, you came to the village and asked for permission. That was much nicer. But Satchmo was still against you, and he's the mountain spirit so...”
Alex fumed. “Then why is your ugly, too skinny, white skinned ass here?”
“Because there is an evil greater than your greed in my home, threatening my village, hurting my Goddess's Followers, bringing sinister deeds to the Queendom, and I will not let this pass. And you, Alex, are a means to an end.”
Alex resumed her seat, not once taking her eyes from the very angry and very powerful High Priestess. “We haven't let anyone leave this mountain, just as we agreed; your Clinton was convincing, your Diana a force of will. We've not killed anyone, but we've made ourselves into bandits, thugs, doing as you asked. And still you will not let us enter the caves!”
El stared at her, into her. “Not yet. But Satchmo has shown me your treasure, Alex.”
The other woman froze. “You've seen it?”
“A box, gold and covered in old runes. There are creatures with wings, not birds, not Angels, on the corners of the box. Is that what your grandfather left your family?”
“Likely...”
El placed her ork-sized bottle, her fourth, she thought, at her feet. She stood, heavy with purpose, and a dire need to piss. “Hunter Alex, as it is in my power to give, I hereby grant you access to that one cave, to retrieve that one item, under the guard of the demon spirit, but permitted no where else on his mountain.”
The whole of the camp stared at her. “How do I know that you're not lying? You could place any box there and tell me lies, making me believe a false relic is my family's lost treasure. No, I demand assurances.”
“A mountain spirit cannot lie. He has been here longer than my village, longer than your family, and will be here long after our deaths. He does not want you to take the box, because the man who placed it there was a friend to him. The demon hound has memories hidden all throughout the forest and deep within the earth. His memory is longer than either of our lives.
“If you take that box, you'll take away his friend. He grieves to have you take it.”
Alex, motionless, stayed to her spot, struck by the words. “The spirit beast loved my family? He honors my family?”
El swayed, began making her way to the edge of camp, a small, faintly glowing hound sat, attentive, just near the border stones.
Alex escorted her. “I have to bring it back, Elizabeth. My family’s honor... there are evils in my home, too.” She sounded resolute, but saddened. “I never knew...”
El crossed the border; Alex didn't. Satchmo looked up at them, bowed his small, faint head at Alex, and turned away, off into the woods, his tail down.
“Don't be too honored. He keeps stealing my shoes. Years from now, Satchmo will remember me because he favored my shoes!” She smiled as she said it.
Hunter Alex stood at full attention. “I mean to have that treasure, High Priestess. My camp will continue to detour your people, trap them here in this, your home, as per our part of this fool's bargain.”
“Be sure, Alex! You risk your lives. For a golden box. I can not tell my village that you will not kill them, and they will think to defend themselves. Any of you could be arrow shot, die.”
“Who are you trying to keep away from the world, Elizabeth? Who are you locking away?”
“A most highly honored lord and his extremely well trained and ruthless Civil Guard.”
“Bitch! You would have the Queen herself call us her enemy!”
“I would. Would you?”
El turned, walked, stumbled, all the way up to her mountaintop. She had to walk the wrong way, to cover her path, to confuse any Guard. She fell, skinned her knee, and stayed, too tired to move, on the other side of the mountain, far from the camp.
Satchmo was likely spending time with his box. Kramer was likely warm in his honored bed. Clinton was likely bedded down with an eager, young thing. Diana was likely finishing her midnight prayers, and then going to her warm bed. And her Peter...
But here sat the High Priestess, covered in mud, too drunk after a night spent with the now thuggish orks, and so, so lonely.
With a great breath, she screamed as far as her voice would carry. “Fuck!”
Peter sat atop his mount, watching as Neal rode beside him. The moon sat low and heavy in the sky, the stars little more than candles in the distance.
The younger man was tense, an arrow waiting to be shot. He wore the dark and over-priced clothing Mozzie had purchased for him. He looked like something from a street minstrel’s wardrobe. The scabbards and belt hidden under his coat, likely his lock picks too.
“We'll enter as I did last time; only this dinner, you will be my guest. We'll inform Steward Fowler that I have come to thank him for his lord's hospitality, and between the two of us, I’m sure that we can overstay our welcome.” He was pleased with his plan. More so when Neal didn't object.
“A bit late for dinner, isn't it? Or perhaps, too early?” Neal may not have objected, but he did like to nitpick.
“Breakfast, then. We are, after all, leaving for our long journey.”
Neal didn't say anything else, choosing to ride the remainder in silence, alone with his thoughts.
They arrived at the manor house.
A very lively manor. Lively at night. The latest of the night, too early for even the cockerels.
Yet servants and farm hands were working. The nearby farmhouse was well lit and active. And judging by the sounds coming from within, every animal inside was being slaughtered.
Taurus sniffed the air in distress, Bugsy seemed no better.
“Peter.” Neal spoke low and forceful. “Your Enforcer Charm-activate it! Make record of this, bring it to the council.”
“It's circumstantial. Any manor can do as they wish to their own livestock.”
“Active it, Peter. The rest of this night will not offer you another chance.”
Peter's gut, churning since they left the stables, grew more alert. Neal seemed interested in every action of the manor house. Even the trees, their slight sway, caused Neal to study it.
“Neal, what aren't you telling me?”
“Active the damn charm, Peter. Or leave. I mean to kill Kramer. But these beasts need executing too.”
“What?”
Neal tied Bugsy to the hitching post.
Peter, suddenly feeling as though he was in over his head, missing his trusted team, the reliable back up they provided, dismounted his horse and followed Neal.
He reached to this sheath, the embroidered sigil just at the top, was more than some talisman of his station. It was created by the Queen herself. A protection and a responsibility. A tool to serve justice.
Peter activated the charm. From now until he deactivated the charm, every action within his sights and senses would be made record.
They made their way to the manor house door, knocked, waited, and waited, and still no Steward or servant showed. “We'd best go to the farmhouse, then. Seek admittance that way.”
Peter began to walk to the steps leading away from the broad porch, when he heard the door open behind him. Neal rose from his knees, pocketing something.
“The door's open, Enforcer.” A small smirk.
“Neal, did you use your lo-”
“Have you activated your charm?”
“Yes.”
“Then let's go.” Neal wasted no time.
Past the door, the tall windows were blocked, heavy curtains drawn, allowing almost no light to navigate. “Neal!” Peter kept his voice low. “Come back. We haven't been given permission to enter.”
“Do you still wish to find evidence against Kramer? Against his corrupted Civil Guard? Then follow your escaped prisoner, Peter. But keep up, or I will have to leave you.”
Peter entered, sword drawn, finding Neal quickly. The man was searching the manor, room by room, with systematic, practiced efficiency.
“Neal, we're still on the ground floor, do you really think that this where he'd keep his fleece?”
Neal answered without stopping his search; his eyes took on a frightening glow. It was subtle, like most of Neal's characteristics, but there for those who looked. “We're not looking for a fleece. Not technically. It will be a rotting piece of human flesh.”
“What? Neal, what are-”
Neal looked at him, the white glow from earlier, lightly, softly, escaping from his eyes. “Kramer's not the only werewolf. That slaughter, in the farmhouse, is for the three or so werewolves here. They serve their master, Peter. Lord Kramer has been building his pack for years, by the looks of things.”
“Neal, your eyes...”
“Let's try upstairs. We don't know how much time we'll have until we're found.”
“...To find the human flesh?”
Peter allowed Neal to lead; his steps much quieter as they assented the steps, Master Thief, in name and deed. The curtains were drawn in every room and hall.
Peter stood at the door as Neal effectively searched each drawer, each closet, even the chamber pots.
They made their way to the servant's floor. Neal stopped after tossing the third small living space. His eyes flashed, just for the shortest span, and then returned to the muted glow. “Someone's coming.”
Peter searched for some place to hide. The space was too small. Just a bed, a covered window, and some few personal items atop a chest.
Neal drew himself up, standing boldly in full view.
“You there!” A voice, strong, female, guttural, murderous. “Who the fired hell are you?”
Neal never flinched at the anger aimed at him. “Are your masters calling a feast this night?” Neal looked to the woman, uncowed. “This feast has tasked you and your fellows well into the night, nearly to morning, and still you slaughter the animals?”
“Who... are-”
“The first time you were ordered, you were too new to your job, happy for the money.”
Neal was breaking her down, his eyes burned into hers. “But now, years later, you are too drawn to it, to the blood, the power, the roars of your masters as they tear away at the blood and bone.”
His eyes glowing, brighter and brighter. “And you want that power. You want to rend the meat from creatures, small and great, the blood warm down your chin. You want that? Poor servant, lonely and sad, you want to join that?”
“Yes.” The woman swayed where she stood. “I want...”
“They offered it to you? Just swear your loyalty, and you'll be one of them?”
“Yes.”
Neal never moved. “And the first time you killed for them, who was it?”
“The older staff, they had to go.”
“Who did you kill?”
“I had to!” The woman's voice grew agitated, fighting Neal's spell. “He was nobody! Just some man.”
“His name!”
Peter, sword and rope at the ready, moved to arrest her.
“Dobbs. He was here before me; the older staff wouldn't understand, they had to go. They had to-” Before Peter could step from behind the door, the woman fell, dead.
“Neal! Did you-”
“Yes. We have to move, the others will be looking for her soon. The cellar is the only place left.” Neal moved to the hall. “We have to-”
“Neal... You've just committed a murder.” His mind reeling. But his duty clear. He made ready his rope. “Sit down on the bed, I’ll leave you here, find the fleece, and return for you.” He moved to Neal, and his damn devil eyes.
“Flesh, Peter.” Neal did something then, the rope that was in his hands suddenly gone. “Flesh. From their first kill. That's what gives them their power.”
Peter looked at his empty hands. “Who the fired hell are you?”
“The Bondsman.”
“The Bon- A werewolf killer? You?”
He smiled, but his glowing eyes were unforgiving. “As her Majesty's Bondservant, I did not kill that woman; I executed a murderer on the night of her Turning.” Neal hefted the woman off the floor and out of sight from the hall. “Cellar.” And he left, leaving Peter to follow or be left behind.
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, High Priestess of the Goddess, Healer, and Caretaker of the Holy Springs, cursed with a passion as she emerged from the woods toward the valley.
The moon, nearing its zenith, cast light enough to guide her to the valley below.
The noble Lord Kramer had been encouraged to watch the local singers perform an impromptu concert. Elizabeth had feigned important business, and sadly, could not attend.
She cast a simple glamor against the Guard tasked with escorting her, and made way to meet with her newest allies.
She often times went back over her tracks, or purposely went through the thick weeds, anything she could think of to hide her snowy tracks.
Thorns had pierced her, sticks had torn her coat, and she had slipped in the freezing mud, causing her clothes to stick to her.
The High Priestess used the most creative of curses as she blundered into the small camp set near the border stones that separated the valley from her mountain home.
“Priestess?” A voice called out to her in greeting. “You curse?”
“That's High Priestess. And by the ass-puckering flames of hell, fuck, yes I damn well curse!” She paused, taking in the sight of the tall ork. “Fuck and Tits! Does anyone in your camp have a damn beer?”
Hunter Alex, leader of the ork tribe, raised her brows. Speechless, she looked to her nearby associate, and watched her fetch the ordered beer.
Elizabeth followed Alex into the camp. She was always astounded at the grace in a creature so massive. Her clothing was sensible but heavily jeweled. Her long black hair was kept neatly pined in a complicated style. But most striking were her hands, stronger than any human, but so delicate to hold a baby bird.
They exchanged a few pleasantries, shared the expensive beer, and spent the rest of the night arguing.
“Enough!” Alex stood, many of the campers nervous, not wanting a blood-spilling. “You know what I want! My father died to find the treasure in your mountain, and I mean to honor him! Admit my party unto your mountain, El!”
Elizabeth, more than slightly drunk, and ecstatic with the idea of a Goddess damned fight, threw her head back to stare all the way up at the taller woman. The fire casting her teeth larger and sharper than El had previously thought.
“No.” El belched. The camp froze. “First, not my mountain. The mountain spirit has killed one of yours in warning when you tried to search his mountain. That, Alex, was dumb and greedy.
“Next, you came to the village and asked for permission. That was much nicer. But Satchmo was still against you, and he's the mountain spirit so...”
Alex fumed. “Then why is your ugly, too skinny, white skinned ass here?”
“Because there is an evil greater than your greed in my home, threatening my village, hurting my Goddess's Followers, bringing sinister deeds to the Queendom, and I will not let this pass. And you, Alex, are a means to an end.”
Alex resumed her seat, not once taking her eyes from the very angry and very powerful High Priestess. “We haven't let anyone leave this mountain, just as we agreed; your Clinton was convincing, your Diana a force of will. We've not killed anyone, but we've made ourselves into bandits, thugs, doing as you asked. And still you will not let us enter the caves!”
El stared at her, into her. “Not yet. But Satchmo has shown me your treasure, Alex.”
The other woman froze. “You've seen it?”
“A box, gold and covered in old runes. There are creatures with wings, not birds, not Angels, on the corners of the box. Is that what your grandfather left your family?”
“Likely...”
El placed her ork-sized bottle, her fourth, she thought, at her feet. She stood, heavy with purpose, and a dire need to piss. “Hunter Alex, as it is in my power to give, I hereby grant you access to that one cave, to retrieve that one item, under the guard of the demon spirit, but permitted no where else on his mountain.”
The whole of the camp stared at her. “How do I know that you're not lying? You could place any box there and tell me lies, making me believe a false relic is my family's lost treasure. No, I demand assurances.”
“A mountain spirit cannot lie. He has been here longer than my village, longer than your family, and will be here long after our deaths. He does not want you to take the box, because the man who placed it there was a friend to him. The demon hound has memories hidden all throughout the forest and deep within the earth. His memory is longer than either of our lives.
“If you take that box, you'll take away his friend. He grieves to have you take it.”
Alex, motionless, stayed to her spot, struck by the words. “The spirit beast loved my family? He honors my family?”
El swayed, began making her way to the edge of camp, a small, faintly glowing hound sat, attentive, just near the border stones.
Alex escorted her. “I have to bring it back, Elizabeth. My family’s honor... there are evils in my home, too.” She sounded resolute, but saddened. “I never knew...”
El crossed the border; Alex didn't. Satchmo looked up at them, bowed his small, faint head at Alex, and turned away, off into the woods, his tail down.
“Don't be too honored. He keeps stealing my shoes. Years from now, Satchmo will remember me because he favored my shoes!” She smiled as she said it.
Hunter Alex stood at full attention. “I mean to have that treasure, High Priestess. My camp will continue to detour your people, trap them here in this, your home, as per our part of this fool's bargain.”
“Be sure, Alex! You risk your lives. For a golden box. I can not tell my village that you will not kill them, and they will think to defend themselves. Any of you could be arrow shot, die.”
“Who are you trying to keep away from the world, Elizabeth? Who are you locking away?”
“A most highly honored lord and his extremely well trained and ruthless Civil Guard.”
“Bitch! You would have the Queen herself call us her enemy!”
“I would. Would you?”
El turned, walked, stumbled, all the way up to her mountaintop. She had to walk the wrong way, to cover her path, to confuse any Guard. She fell, skinned her knee, and stayed, too tired to move, on the other side of the mountain, far from the camp.
Satchmo was likely spending time with his box. Kramer was likely warm in his honored bed. Clinton was likely bedded down with an eager, young thing. Diana was likely finishing her midnight prayers, and then going to her warm bed. And her Peter...
But here sat the High Priestess, covered in mud, too drunk after a night spent with the now thuggish orks, and so, so lonely.
With a great breath, she screamed as far as her voice would carry. “Fuck!”
Peter sat atop his mount, watching as Neal rode beside him. The moon sat low and heavy in the sky, the stars little more than candles in the distance.
The younger man was tense, an arrow waiting to be shot. He wore the dark and over-priced clothing Mozzie had purchased for him. He looked like something from a street minstrel’s wardrobe. The scabbards and belt hidden under his coat, likely his lock picks too.
“We'll enter as I did last time; only this dinner, you will be my guest. We'll inform Steward Fowler that I have come to thank him for his lord's hospitality, and between the two of us, I’m sure that we can overstay our welcome.” He was pleased with his plan. More so when Neal didn't object.
“A bit late for dinner, isn't it? Or perhaps, too early?” Neal may not have objected, but he did like to nitpick.
“Breakfast, then. We are, after all, leaving for our long journey.”
Neal didn't say anything else, choosing to ride the remainder in silence, alone with his thoughts.
They arrived at the manor house.
A very lively manor. Lively at night. The latest of the night, too early for even the cockerels.
Yet servants and farm hands were working. The nearby farmhouse was well lit and active. And judging by the sounds coming from within, every animal inside was being slaughtered.
Taurus sniffed the air in distress, Bugsy seemed no better.
“Peter.” Neal spoke low and forceful. “Your Enforcer Charm-activate it! Make record of this, bring it to the council.”
“It's circumstantial. Any manor can do as they wish to their own livestock.”
“Active it, Peter. The rest of this night will not offer you another chance.”
Peter's gut, churning since they left the stables, grew more alert. Neal seemed interested in every action of the manor house. Even the trees, their slight sway, caused Neal to study it.
“Neal, what aren't you telling me?”
“Active the damn charm, Peter. Or leave. I mean to kill Kramer. But these beasts need executing too.”
“What?”
Neal tied Bugsy to the hitching post.
Peter, suddenly feeling as though he was in over his head, missing his trusted team, the reliable back up they provided, dismounted his horse and followed Neal.
He reached to this sheath, the embroidered sigil just at the top, was more than some talisman of his station. It was created by the Queen herself. A protection and a responsibility. A tool to serve justice.
Peter activated the charm. From now until he deactivated the charm, every action within his sights and senses would be made record.
They made their way to the manor house door, knocked, waited, and waited, and still no Steward or servant showed. “We'd best go to the farmhouse, then. Seek admittance that way.”
Peter began to walk to the steps leading away from the broad porch, when he heard the door open behind him. Neal rose from his knees, pocketing something.
“The door's open, Enforcer.” A small smirk.
“Neal, did you use your lo-”
“Have you activated your charm?”
“Yes.”
“Then let's go.” Neal wasted no time.
Past the door, the tall windows were blocked, heavy curtains drawn, allowing almost no light to navigate. “Neal!” Peter kept his voice low. “Come back. We haven't been given permission to enter.”
“Do you still wish to find evidence against Kramer? Against his corrupted Civil Guard? Then follow your escaped prisoner, Peter. But keep up, or I will have to leave you.”
Peter entered, sword drawn, finding Neal quickly. The man was searching the manor, room by room, with systematic, practiced efficiency.
“Neal, we're still on the ground floor, do you really think that this where he'd keep his fleece?”
Neal answered without stopping his search; his eyes took on a frightening glow. It was subtle, like most of Neal's characteristics, but there for those who looked. “We're not looking for a fleece. Not technically. It will be a rotting piece of human flesh.”
“What? Neal, what are-”
Neal looked at him, the white glow from earlier, lightly, softly, escaping from his eyes. “Kramer's not the only werewolf. That slaughter, in the farmhouse, is for the three or so werewolves here. They serve their master, Peter. Lord Kramer has been building his pack for years, by the looks of things.”
“Neal, your eyes...”
“Let's try upstairs. We don't know how much time we'll have until we're found.”
“...To find the human flesh?”
Peter allowed Neal to lead; his steps much quieter as they assented the steps, Master Thief, in name and deed. The curtains were drawn in every room and hall.
Peter stood at the door as Neal effectively searched each drawer, each closet, even the chamber pots.
They made their way to the servant's floor. Neal stopped after tossing the third small living space. His eyes flashed, just for the shortest span, and then returned to the muted glow. “Someone's coming.”
Peter searched for some place to hide. The space was too small. Just a bed, a covered window, and some few personal items atop a chest.
Neal drew himself up, standing boldly in full view.
“You there!” A voice, strong, female, guttural, murderous. “Who the fired hell are you?”
Neal never flinched at the anger aimed at him. “Are your masters calling a feast this night?” Neal looked to the woman, uncowed. “This feast has tasked you and your fellows well into the night, nearly to morning, and still you slaughter the animals?”
“Who... are-”
“The first time you were ordered, you were too new to your job, happy for the money.”
Neal was breaking her down, his eyes burned into hers. “But now, years later, you are too drawn to it, to the blood, the power, the roars of your masters as they tear away at the blood and bone.”
His eyes glowing, brighter and brighter. “And you want that power. You want to rend the meat from creatures, small and great, the blood warm down your chin. You want that? Poor servant, lonely and sad, you want to join that?”
“Yes.” The woman swayed where she stood. “I want...”
“They offered it to you? Just swear your loyalty, and you'll be one of them?”
“Yes.”
Neal never moved. “And the first time you killed for them, who was it?”
“The older staff, they had to go.”
“Who did you kill?”
“I had to!” The woman's voice grew agitated, fighting Neal's spell. “He was nobody! Just some man.”
“His name!”
Peter, sword and rope at the ready, moved to arrest her.
“Dobbs. He was here before me; the older staff wouldn't understand, they had to go. They had to-” Before Peter could step from behind the door, the woman fell, dead.
“Neal! Did you-”
“Yes. We have to move, the others will be looking for her soon. The cellar is the only place left.” Neal moved to the hall. “We have to-”
“Neal... You've just committed a murder.” His mind reeling. But his duty clear. He made ready his rope. “Sit down on the bed, I’ll leave you here, find the fleece, and return for you.” He moved to Neal, and his damn devil eyes.
“Flesh, Peter.” Neal did something then, the rope that was in his hands suddenly gone. “Flesh. From their first kill. That's what gives them their power.”
Peter looked at his empty hands. “Who the fired hell are you?”
“The Bondsman.”
“The Bon- A werewolf killer? You?”
He smiled, but his glowing eyes were unforgiving. “As her Majesty's Bondservant, I did not kill that woman; I executed a murderer on the night of her Turning.” Neal hefted the woman off the floor and out of sight from the hall. “Cellar.” And he left, leaving Peter to follow or be left behind.