Peter Octavian (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
2_old_for_this) wrote2016-07-22 09:21 pm
2_old_for_this) wrote2016-07-22 09:21 pm
Entry tags:
From Hell to Salzburg, Friday evening Fandom time
It had been...months now? A year, maybe?...since the demon lord had entered Peter, clawed his way inside and made Peter a puppet in his own flesh. Much of his memory - of the time and of before - was mercifully vague, the only saving grace of this latest torture. And now, here was Meaghan, and Will, and the Stranger, and Peter wanted to shout to them, tell them to be careful, it isn't me!
Clarity came in the pain of the Stranger's sharp silver talons slicing through him before the demon lord emerged, tearing him open from the inside, shedding his skin in long strips as he burst forth. Peter fell like a discarded marionette, broken and sprawled in his own blood.
It took him some time to realize he wasn't dead. It took him longer to stop wishing that he weren't. To realize that there was something beyond the pain. He was alive, and if he was alive, he could see that he stayed that way. He was a Shadow; his body obeyed him. He closed his eyes tight against the pain and grimaced, feeling his spine begin to knit itself back together, but slowly, so slowly. Concentrating was so hard, and he was so cold...
"Peter," he heard a low voice call out. There was someone over him, someone friendly.
Will! he realized, and sent the thought to his brother, unable to conjure the effort for even a whisper.
I'm here, Peter, came the answer, with feelings of comfort and reassurance. You're going to be all right, brother.
He blacked out again, fading into that comfort, until more words came. Peter, we've got to go; the others need our help. Can you walk?
Walk? Peter tried, and managed to twitch his legs, to lever himself just far enough to turn. He was still healing too slowly. Need...to feed, he managed, before the effort required had drained him again.
His next lucid moment, he realized that he was being fed the blood he so badly needed, from Will's own wrist. He sent his gratefulness back along their link as he grew stronger; he'd need to heal properly later, but for now, he could at least manage to stand.
After that, it was a whirlwind. The battle hadn't ended yet, and their enemies were strong. The Hell lords that had followed Beelzebub out needed to be dealt with, and as his strength and mind returned, piece by piece, he found himself eager to help. He had suffered long enough at the hands of them and those like them; he refused to let his friends and his world do the same.
Will and Meaghan fought beside him, and he was glad to have them. He couldn't remember everything - it had been so long ago that much of their relationship was lost to him, but he remembered how he felt about them, if not entirely why.
Beelzebub strode forward, taunting him, and Peter would have fought him there, but the Stranger spoke to him, and Peter couldn't deny that in his weakened state, he wouldn't be much use. Instead, he fought against the lesser demons and left the Stranger with his prior claim to enmity. He held his own, at least, until the scorpion tail of one demon lord speared straight for Will. Peter blocked it, taking the slash across his arm to deflect it just enough, but the poison weakened him further.
And then Meaghan was gone - off with the Stranger, with Charlemagne's last warriors, to kill Beelzebub, to sacrifice themselves to ensure his evil wouldn't remain in the world. He reared up furiously but without a sound, his flesh coming apart as he rotted from the inside out, the silver of their changed bodies working its way through his cells.
He was dying already; there would be no escape. But Beelzebub threw out a hand and brought to life a portal, shimmering like a bloody mirror, perhaps thinking to return to Hell, to his own base of power, to try to purge their corruption from him.
Peter stumbled closer - he doubted such a gambit would work, but what else might come through while the portal stood open? There was magic deep inside him, if he could call on it to close the door…
His magic touched it, and caught, and to his horror, it started to reel him in. He fought its gravity, fought to end the connection, but only succeeded in closing it behind him as it sucked him in.
Peter did not stop fighting, though. He had spent a millennium in Hell; he would not go back to it. He lashed out with his magic, his memories still too uncoordinated for a specific spell, and dug in his metaphysical fingers to any friendly dimension he could find.
Eventually, they caught.
[OOC: Part quoted, part adapted, part extrapolated, and part my own - from Christopher Golden, Angel Souls and Devil Hearts.]
Clarity came in the pain of the Stranger's sharp silver talons slicing through him before the demon lord emerged, tearing him open from the inside, shedding his skin in long strips as he burst forth. Peter fell like a discarded marionette, broken and sprawled in his own blood.
It took him some time to realize he wasn't dead. It took him longer to stop wishing that he weren't. To realize that there was something beyond the pain. He was alive, and if he was alive, he could see that he stayed that way. He was a Shadow; his body obeyed him. He closed his eyes tight against the pain and grimaced, feeling his spine begin to knit itself back together, but slowly, so slowly. Concentrating was so hard, and he was so cold...
"Peter," he heard a low voice call out. There was someone over him, someone friendly.
Will! he realized, and sent the thought to his brother, unable to conjure the effort for even a whisper.
I'm here, Peter, came the answer, with feelings of comfort and reassurance. You're going to be all right, brother.
He blacked out again, fading into that comfort, until more words came. Peter, we've got to go; the others need our help. Can you walk?
Walk? Peter tried, and managed to twitch his legs, to lever himself just far enough to turn. He was still healing too slowly. Need...to feed, he managed, before the effort required had drained him again.
His next lucid moment, he realized that he was being fed the blood he so badly needed, from Will's own wrist. He sent his gratefulness back along their link as he grew stronger; he'd need to heal properly later, but for now, he could at least manage to stand.
After that, it was a whirlwind. The battle hadn't ended yet, and their enemies were strong. The Hell lords that had followed Beelzebub out needed to be dealt with, and as his strength and mind returned, piece by piece, he found himself eager to help. He had suffered long enough at the hands of them and those like them; he refused to let his friends and his world do the same.
Will and Meaghan fought beside him, and he was glad to have them. He couldn't remember everything - it had been so long ago that much of their relationship was lost to him, but he remembered how he felt about them, if not entirely why.
Beelzebub strode forward, taunting him, and Peter would have fought him there, but the Stranger spoke to him, and Peter couldn't deny that in his weakened state, he wouldn't be much use. Instead, he fought against the lesser demons and left the Stranger with his prior claim to enmity. He held his own, at least, until the scorpion tail of one demon lord speared straight for Will. Peter blocked it, taking the slash across his arm to deflect it just enough, but the poison weakened him further.
And then Meaghan was gone - off with the Stranger, with Charlemagne's last warriors, to kill Beelzebub, to sacrifice themselves to ensure his evil wouldn't remain in the world. He reared up furiously but without a sound, his flesh coming apart as he rotted from the inside out, the silver of their changed bodies working its way through his cells.
He was dying already; there would be no escape. But Beelzebub threw out a hand and brought to life a portal, shimmering like a bloody mirror, perhaps thinking to return to Hell, to his own base of power, to try to purge their corruption from him.
Peter stumbled closer - he doubted such a gambit would work, but what else might come through while the portal stood open? There was magic deep inside him, if he could call on it to close the door…
His magic touched it, and caught, and to his horror, it started to reel him in. He fought its gravity, fought to end the connection, but only succeeded in closing it behind him as it sucked him in.
Peter did not stop fighting, though. He had spent a millennium in Hell; he would not go back to it. He lashed out with his magic, his memories still too uncoordinated for a specific spell, and dug in his metaphysical fingers to any friendly dimension he could find.
Eventually, they caught.
[OOC: Part quoted, part adapted, part extrapolated, and part my own - from Christopher Golden, Angel Souls and Devil Hearts.]