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.

"Peter!" Goddess, Goddess, no!

Fowler stood above Peter, his sword only inches deep in the limp man's chest, any more and it would pierce Peter's heart. The werewolf had gashed the Enforcer deep in the abdomen, Peter's blood spilling out.

"I think, Bondservant, you will find that we have come to a draw."

The madness, abated for the fleeting pang of grief at his gaoler's pain, returned with a furry. Neal accepted it, loved it, caressed it, welcomed it. His sanity, his soul, lost, willingly abandoned. His smile a homecoming of death, of hunting, of his long ago oath to his honored Queen.

"Bondservant? Yes, I am a Bondservant. I am the Bondsman! The greatest of the great." He advanced, a step, one, the first since the fray began. "I have spilled the blood of so many werewolves. All of them dead, Fowler. All of them, at my feet. They fell before me." Another step. "You are little more than six summers a wolf. Your death is but one more." Another. "The Goddess' Curse you so covet, it brought you so much power." Another. "So many possibilities." Again. "You were drunk on it, waiting each moon for another chance."

"Stop! I'll kill him."

"And then what, wolf?" Another. "How many times have you bathed your flesh? Taking it out only when you knew your Master would allow it?" The last step. "Sometimes it would be an agony, not able to Turn. Knowing that your flesh was within reach, the moon full bodied and heady, a drink to quench like none other."

Fowler readied his blade, uncertain, afraid, but too proud, too desperate to run.

Peter watched, unable to do more, his breath hitching in his chest. His limbs numb. He was so cold.

But he watched, his only concession to his El, he watched. As long as he could, he made record, for El, for Diana, for Clinton, his village, even his Queen. He watched.

Neal advanced on Fowler. Step after step, unfaltering and unafraid, mad, and frighteningly calm for it, his voice low and even.

"And this, Fowler, is where you burn." Neal moved his hand, too fast to track, a sigil drawn in the air, a flash of white.

Above him, Fowler screamed. And screamed, and screamed.

Neal held a knife by the blade in his other hand, blooding it, activating the knife embedded in the wolf's leg. "This is the magic of the Queen's High Mage. His fury etched into each blade. He shoved the Earthstone into my heart, and with it, gave me this sigil... to burn you. To hurt you. To kill you. To hunt you down to the last. I am the Bondsman, and this is my Master's power!"

The wolf spasmed, jerking and pained, screaming. His blood poisoned with the magicked silver. Fowler's skin burning, the stench of it reaching down, down to Peter's numb body.

"Your Master is next." Neal threw the bloodied knife into the heart of Fowler with a meaty thunk.

The wolf fell, on fire, dead.

"Peter!" Hands were on him, rolling him unto his back. When had he closed his eyes?

"Peter... this is going to hurt. Scream if you have to, but be quick about it; the manorfolk will be on us soon."

He watched as Neal pulled some long, thin scrap of cloth from some hidden pocket, likely one of several. He wrapped his middle with it. Over and over, moving him, shifting the cold that exploded in pain with each new agitation. His groans turned to soft sobbing, his numb hands coming to weakly push against the other man. "Stop. Please."

"No." The white glow of his eyes intensified. All of Neal's focus on him, a spell without blood, a caster without wand or sacrifice, just his solid will.

Without warning, the cold stopped. His limbs, like pins and needles, awake and real. The fabric of him, from the inside to the out, stitched itself whole. In a span of breaths, he was healed and whole.

"Neal?"

The younger man's breathing was shallow and fast; he sat above him in the dark. "There are... two coming. We have to... go."

Neal didn't offer to help him upright. Instead, he tore open Fowler's clothing, the stench stronger than his stomach could take; Peter turned and retched. A skin, discolored and rotting was tied to the dead wolf's chest with a long cord wrapped about his torso. Neal removed the knife buried deep in the dead man's chest and used it to cut the thong.

He cleaned the knife using Fowler's splayed clothing and put it away, under his coat with the others.

The skin was wrapped carefully, Neal showed no sign of disgust. Rather, he displayed experience, with quick moves the skin was put away in Fowler's blooded coat.

Peter struggled to his feet, while Neal gathered his knifes from Fowler's leg and about the room. It would seem that for each time Fowler was overconfident, Neal wasn't; Neal had been playing. Forcing Fowler's attention, making him angry and stupid. Two more knives returned to their homes under his coat.

Peter managed to steady himself, made his way to the steps, slowly, dizzy. "Where's the fifth knife?"

"Didn't need it." He grabbed him under his elbow, rushing him. "Where's the nearest exit?" Neal's voice breathy and fast. His eyes brighter, his brow sweating... "Peter! Focus! Where's the exit?"

"This way..."

They made their way with as much haste as two exhausted men, one injured, the other freshly magicked, could muster. Servants descending the stairs just as they exited the manor house.

"The horses are still there, fetch them. Hurry." Neal all but shoving him. "Don't forget your evidence, Enforcer." Neal shoved the hidden skin into his hands.

With faltering steps and a brief stop to retch, again, he returned; the skin hidden away in his saddle bag. Neal was nowhere to be seen. He was about to call out, fearful what trouble the man had found in his absence. But he stepped out from the shadows and slowly mounted his horse.

They stayed out of the light from the manor and the farmhouse-turned-slaughter-house, careful to avoid any patrolling Guard.

Neal's breathing was loud and ragged. He was near dying, while his eyes glowed brighter than the long-set moon. "Neal, whatever magic you're using, stop it."

"Get us to the entry gate, Peter."

Once there, Neal guided Bugsy to the corner stone; a massive piece of earth, taller than a standing ork, faded with sun and covered in snow. He touched his hand to it, bent his head, and his will shone out, demanding, unforgiving, damning.

Neal removed his hand, leaning back heavily in his saddle, a tired smile of smug satisfaction. "Your father built this? It was well built."

Runes, old and hidden within the stone began to move, like snakes seeking warmth. "What?"

A wheeze. "Your father was an Arcane-for-hire, Peter. He truly did want better for you."

Before he could question, the ground shook, causing his mount to startle. Then the manor shook, and shook. It shattered. It fell. Loud, screaming inside, a chaos of crashing windows and stone pillars, all crumbling.

Peter did not know how long he stayed there, staring at the destruction. Where there once stood a sprawling manor, filled with people and life, in the briefest of span, now there was nothing. Nothing living.

Dust and death and stench rising into the lighting sky. A foul dawn, cruel, without any promise.

"And now..." A wheeze. "...Kramer."

Neal collapsed over his horse, bleeding from a hundred cuts.

Nothing after the gate's threshold stood. The weak sun's rays blossomed over the remains of the broken manor and farmhouse and trees and everything until the gate. The earth shattered and torn.

Peter stared, uncertain and scared at the devastation before him, his charm still active.