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bedlamsbardThe paper is not done. (HA!) But! There are werewolves -- or one werewolf, rather. (PC-era werewolves here.) This is LWW -- Maugrim bites Peter, Peter gets turned (but doesn't change that first night), and when the White Witch comes to bargain with Aslan for Edmund, Peter says, "You want one of us? Then take me," and she looks at him and just smiles before knocking him out and having one of her minions sling him over his shoulder. And Aslan doesn't even protest.
This is after that.
He wakes up in a cage.
The night sits heavy on his shoulders, unseasonably warm -- or at least it seems that way to Peter; two days ago it was winter. He draws himself up to his feet, his head spinning as he clutches at the bars for balance.
A wolf snarls and Peter turns his head to stare at it. He can feel his heartbeat -- too strong, too fast, God, he can smell everything.
"Can you feel it, little prince?" the wolf drawls, tongue lolling out of its mouth. "Moon's rising. You'll be one of us."
Another wolf laughs and the rest of the Witch's army takes it up, a cackling, screeching press of horrible sound on all sides of him. Peter flinches despite his best intentions, jumping when a hag rattles the bars of his cage, screaming laughter.
"Look at him dance!" she shouts.
The White Witch is a pale figure among her creatures, approaching with a smile on her face. "Peter, darling," she says, and he forces himself to stand his ground despite the fear pounding through his veins. There's an odd taste in the back of his throat, like silver or steel.
"The moon's rising," she continues. "You won't be the Lion's anymore. You'll be mine."
"No," Peter says roughly, the words scraping at the back of his throat. He shakes his head frantically, but there's something odd going on with his vision, the White Witch sliding in and out of focus in front of him. And then he shudders all over, full body, and screams in pain and terror as his bones twist inside his body, his skin melting and running like candle wax. He drops to all fours, curling in on himself, even after the pain's passed.
The White Witch laughs.
Peter tries to get to his feet, he tries, but he's not -- he can't --
He stumbles for a moment on four feet instead of two, lips drawing back from his teeth as he growls, but it's not so very, very different so long as he shoves the horror of this away.
"The Lion won't take you now," the Witch says. "Those fools and dreamers will never accept a wolf as their king. And now that you’ve changed, you're one of mine forever."
Peter snarls at her. At least he doesn't have to worry about coming up with any kind of reply; apparently he's not a talking wolf.
The Witch opens the latch on the cage and lets the door swing open. "You're part of my pack now," she says, and then to the wolf who'd spoken to Peter, "He's all yours, boys. Take him."
The moment she turns her back, the wolves are on him. Two of them drag Peter yelping out of the cage and then pull away so that he can stagger to his feet, raising his head to find himself staring at the wolf who'd spoken to him earlier.
"You killed my pack leader," he says amiably. "I suppose I should thank you for that; her majesty has given me Maugrim's position. But you need to learn your place in my pack -- at the bottom." And then he springs at Peter.
Peter goes down under five stone of snarling gray wolf, jaws snapping furiously at his throat. Don't show your belly, something whispers in the back of his brain and Peter somehow wriggles free and back onto his feet, growling in challenge.
"Learn your place, little prince," the wolf bites off before leaping at him again.
Peter meets him in midair. The impact is like getting hit by a train, but Peter's more occupied by the wolf's teeth. He gives himself over to the anger and fear bubbling beneath his skin and fights for his life. It's a confused mess of snarling and growling, snapping jaws that close more than once on his flesh. He's vaguely aware of the shouts of the rest of the army, gathered around them and placing mocking bets.
Then Peter gets up, tasting blood in his mouth, and the wolf doesn't.
He stands still, quivering with fear and adrenaline, and waits for the wolf to get up. Then he realizes the army's gone silent, a bare heartbeat before the wolf pack begins to growl. Run, says a voice in the back of Peter's head, and he runs, cutting between the legs of minotaur and wriggling past a tight grouping of hags. He breaks for open ground just as the White Witch screams, "After him!"
Peter runs for his life.
He's gotten the hang of four legs rather than two now and he vaguely remembers the maps of Narnia Aslan and Oreius had shown him, but there's something else, a scent, something familiar that he finds himself following. It's a long way, longer in the dark than it probably is in the daylight, with the wolves howling behind him, and he finds himself flagging, resting for a few minutes as often as he can until he hears the pack gaining on him again. He licks awkwardly at his wounds, trying to clean them as best he can with tongue alone.
It's not yet dawn by the time the scent of the camp, of so many creatures gathered in close quarters, hits Peter's nose. He whines a little in protest, batting a paw at his nose, then lopes forward, slower now than he'd been before. He's limping badly from a wound on his hind leg; it's still bleeding sluggishly.
He emerges from the edge of the woods at the side of the stream where the wolf -- Maugrim -- had attacked Susan and Lucy. Peter eyes it with distaste; it looks bigger than it had been when he'd been human. Sighing, he wades into it, wincing at the icy chill of the water.
An arrow splashes into the water beside him and Peter shies aside, staring at the centaur on the opposite shore. She brandishes her bow.
"Get back!" she shouts. "Aslan will suffer no creature of the White Witch's here!"
Peter, staring down the shaft of her nocked arrow, has never wanted to speak so much in his life. Instead all he can do is stand frozen in the stream, unable to go forward and unwilling to go back.
Behind him, the wolf pack emerges snarling from the woods and Peter turns to face them, baring his teeth. He hears the centaur curse, followed by the silvery sound of a Narnian warning horn, sharp but singing this close to him.
"Told you so," sing-songs the brindled wolf in the lead. "Those heroes will never take one of us." He grins a wolf-grin. "Come home with us. There's nothing left for you here."
Peter shakes his head, taking a step back towards the Narnian shore. The lead wolf presses forward. "I'm not Athello or Maugrim. I won't make you fight." His voice drips promise as he adds, "I can be good to you."
"You can get away from him!" Edmund shouts from behind Peter.
"Peter!" Susan screams, and a red-feathered arrow sprouts in the eye of a black wolf, who doesn't make a sound before it falls back to the ground.
Peter springs at the lead wolf, his leg failing at the last minute and sending him splashing down into the water with the wolf on top of him. He snaps at the wolf's throat, teeth closing briefly on fur and flesh before the wolf shakes him off. Peter scrambles to his feet, slipping a little as the water rushes around him, and goes down under the weight of the wolf, who slams a paw down on his throat and snarls, "You're mine, little prince. Mine and the Queen's. Say it!"
Peter chokes on water, fighting to get free and back to the surface.
"Say it!" the wolf demands. "They won't have you -- you belong with us now."
He snarls, scratching furiously at the rocky streambed as the wolf bites at the back of his neck. He's starting to thrash now, his lungs burning for air.
"Mine," says the wolf, and Susan screams, "You get the hell away from my brother!"
There's a yelp of pain and the weight vanishes from Peter's back, but he can't get up. The world has gone blurred and dreamlike around him.
Someone gets their arms around him and pulls him up out of the water; Peter coughs, spitting up water as whoever it is drags him up onto shore. he staggers up onto his feet, all four of them, and sees Edmund drop heavily onto the shore beside him.
"Pete," he says. "Peter," and musters up a thin smile. "You look horrible."
"Peter!" Susan and Lucy shriek in near-unison, flinging themselves down on the ground beside him, arms around his neck.
Peter whines and struggles to get free, snapping at the air in front of Lucy's face out of sheer instinct. Edmund grabs the back of her dress and pulls her away, both of them staring at Peter in bald horror.
Susan lets go of him, but doesn't move away. She reaches for him with one hand, touching her fingers to the thick ruff of fur around his neck, and says again, "Peter."
Sorry is what he tries to say as he puts his belly to the ground and crawls toward her, whining softly in the back of his throat. He pushes his muzzle into her palm, nosing at her tentatively, trying to say, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, without saying a word.
"It's all right," Susan says, cupping the back of his neck with one hand. "It's all right."
Aslan comes sometime after sunrise, when Peter's human again, all his dignity and pride gone after he'd turned back and tasted blood in his mouth and promptly thrown up until the only thing he can taste is the sour residue of vomit. He's crying hysterically into Susan's shoulder; he can't seem to be able to stop, because every time he does he remembers the way his bones twisted and the smile on the White Witch's face when she'd looked at him, the way it feels when bone cracks between his teeth, what it's like to fight and kill and like it.
Susan wraps her arms around him, murmuring nonsense into his hair as Peter spends his tears into the shoulder of her dress. Oh God, oh God, he can't let himself think, but it's creeping in anyway. He can hear the pulse of Susan's blood through her veins, the quick beat of her heart, the rasp of her breath in her throat. He can smell the fear on her -- and Edmund and Lucy too. What am I?
He can smell Aslan even before the great lion mounts the little rise that leads down to the stream. Peter raises his head from Susan's shoulder as her grip on him tightens protectively. For a moment he meets the lion's steady gaze.
Only for a moment; he can't stand it any longer. He looks away, watching the lion turn and walk back to the camp out of the corner of his eye.
Susan breathes a soft sigh of relief. "Come on," she says to him. "Let's get you cleaned up."
She helps him to his feet, Peter stumbling a little until he remembers how to balance on just two legs instead of four, and again when he puts too much weight on his bad leg. Susan catches him both times, her grip on his elbow light and sure as she steadies him.
Peter turns to her, raising one hand to touch her face as she goes still, watching him without any fear in her blue eyes. He touches the corner of her and the arch of her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. She turns her face into his hand and Peter says, his voice raw and alien to his ears, "Su."
This is after that.
He wakes up in a cage.
The night sits heavy on his shoulders, unseasonably warm -- or at least it seems that way to Peter; two days ago it was winter. He draws himself up to his feet, his head spinning as he clutches at the bars for balance.
A wolf snarls and Peter turns his head to stare at it. He can feel his heartbeat -- too strong, too fast, God, he can smell everything.
"Can you feel it, little prince?" the wolf drawls, tongue lolling out of its mouth. "Moon's rising. You'll be one of us."
Another wolf laughs and the rest of the Witch's army takes it up, a cackling, screeching press of horrible sound on all sides of him. Peter flinches despite his best intentions, jumping when a hag rattles the bars of his cage, screaming laughter.
"Look at him dance!" she shouts.
The White Witch is a pale figure among her creatures, approaching with a smile on her face. "Peter, darling," she says, and he forces himself to stand his ground despite the fear pounding through his veins. There's an odd taste in the back of his throat, like silver or steel.
"The moon's rising," she continues. "You won't be the Lion's anymore. You'll be mine."
"No," Peter says roughly, the words scraping at the back of his throat. He shakes his head frantically, but there's something odd going on with his vision, the White Witch sliding in and out of focus in front of him. And then he shudders all over, full body, and screams in pain and terror as his bones twist inside his body, his skin melting and running like candle wax. He drops to all fours, curling in on himself, even after the pain's passed.
The White Witch laughs.
Peter tries to get to his feet, he tries, but he's not -- he can't --
He stumbles for a moment on four feet instead of two, lips drawing back from his teeth as he growls, but it's not so very, very different so long as he shoves the horror of this away.
"The Lion won't take you now," the Witch says. "Those fools and dreamers will never accept a wolf as their king. And now that you’ve changed, you're one of mine forever."
Peter snarls at her. At least he doesn't have to worry about coming up with any kind of reply; apparently he's not a talking wolf.
The Witch opens the latch on the cage and lets the door swing open. "You're part of my pack now," she says, and then to the wolf who'd spoken to Peter, "He's all yours, boys. Take him."
The moment she turns her back, the wolves are on him. Two of them drag Peter yelping out of the cage and then pull away so that he can stagger to his feet, raising his head to find himself staring at the wolf who'd spoken to him earlier.
"You killed my pack leader," he says amiably. "I suppose I should thank you for that; her majesty has given me Maugrim's position. But you need to learn your place in my pack -- at the bottom." And then he springs at Peter.
Peter goes down under five stone of snarling gray wolf, jaws snapping furiously at his throat. Don't show your belly, something whispers in the back of his brain and Peter somehow wriggles free and back onto his feet, growling in challenge.
"Learn your place, little prince," the wolf bites off before leaping at him again.
Peter meets him in midair. The impact is like getting hit by a train, but Peter's more occupied by the wolf's teeth. He gives himself over to the anger and fear bubbling beneath his skin and fights for his life. It's a confused mess of snarling and growling, snapping jaws that close more than once on his flesh. He's vaguely aware of the shouts of the rest of the army, gathered around them and placing mocking bets.
Then Peter gets up, tasting blood in his mouth, and the wolf doesn't.
He stands still, quivering with fear and adrenaline, and waits for the wolf to get up. Then he realizes the army's gone silent, a bare heartbeat before the wolf pack begins to growl. Run, says a voice in the back of Peter's head, and he runs, cutting between the legs of minotaur and wriggling past a tight grouping of hags. He breaks for open ground just as the White Witch screams, "After him!"
Peter runs for his life.
He's gotten the hang of four legs rather than two now and he vaguely remembers the maps of Narnia Aslan and Oreius had shown him, but there's something else, a scent, something familiar that he finds himself following. It's a long way, longer in the dark than it probably is in the daylight, with the wolves howling behind him, and he finds himself flagging, resting for a few minutes as often as he can until he hears the pack gaining on him again. He licks awkwardly at his wounds, trying to clean them as best he can with tongue alone.
It's not yet dawn by the time the scent of the camp, of so many creatures gathered in close quarters, hits Peter's nose. He whines a little in protest, batting a paw at his nose, then lopes forward, slower now than he'd been before. He's limping badly from a wound on his hind leg; it's still bleeding sluggishly.
He emerges from the edge of the woods at the side of the stream where the wolf -- Maugrim -- had attacked Susan and Lucy. Peter eyes it with distaste; it looks bigger than it had been when he'd been human. Sighing, he wades into it, wincing at the icy chill of the water.
An arrow splashes into the water beside him and Peter shies aside, staring at the centaur on the opposite shore. She brandishes her bow.
"Get back!" she shouts. "Aslan will suffer no creature of the White Witch's here!"
Peter, staring down the shaft of her nocked arrow, has never wanted to speak so much in his life. Instead all he can do is stand frozen in the stream, unable to go forward and unwilling to go back.
Behind him, the wolf pack emerges snarling from the woods and Peter turns to face them, baring his teeth. He hears the centaur curse, followed by the silvery sound of a Narnian warning horn, sharp but singing this close to him.
"Told you so," sing-songs the brindled wolf in the lead. "Those heroes will never take one of us." He grins a wolf-grin. "Come home with us. There's nothing left for you here."
Peter shakes his head, taking a step back towards the Narnian shore. The lead wolf presses forward. "I'm not Athello or Maugrim. I won't make you fight." His voice drips promise as he adds, "I can be good to you."
"You can get away from him!" Edmund shouts from behind Peter.
"Peter!" Susan screams, and a red-feathered arrow sprouts in the eye of a black wolf, who doesn't make a sound before it falls back to the ground.
Peter springs at the lead wolf, his leg failing at the last minute and sending him splashing down into the water with the wolf on top of him. He snaps at the wolf's throat, teeth closing briefly on fur and flesh before the wolf shakes him off. Peter scrambles to his feet, slipping a little as the water rushes around him, and goes down under the weight of the wolf, who slams a paw down on his throat and snarls, "You're mine, little prince. Mine and the Queen's. Say it!"
Peter chokes on water, fighting to get free and back to the surface.
"Say it!" the wolf demands. "They won't have you -- you belong with us now."
He snarls, scratching furiously at the rocky streambed as the wolf bites at the back of his neck. He's starting to thrash now, his lungs burning for air.
"Mine," says the wolf, and Susan screams, "You get the hell away from my brother!"
There's a yelp of pain and the weight vanishes from Peter's back, but he can't get up. The world has gone blurred and dreamlike around him.
Someone gets their arms around him and pulls him up out of the water; Peter coughs, spitting up water as whoever it is drags him up onto shore. he staggers up onto his feet, all four of them, and sees Edmund drop heavily onto the shore beside him.
"Pete," he says. "Peter," and musters up a thin smile. "You look horrible."
"Peter!" Susan and Lucy shriek in near-unison, flinging themselves down on the ground beside him, arms around his neck.
Peter whines and struggles to get free, snapping at the air in front of Lucy's face out of sheer instinct. Edmund grabs the back of her dress and pulls her away, both of them staring at Peter in bald horror.
Susan lets go of him, but doesn't move away. She reaches for him with one hand, touching her fingers to the thick ruff of fur around his neck, and says again, "Peter."
Sorry is what he tries to say as he puts his belly to the ground and crawls toward her, whining softly in the back of his throat. He pushes his muzzle into her palm, nosing at her tentatively, trying to say, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, without saying a word.
"It's all right," Susan says, cupping the back of his neck with one hand. "It's all right."
Aslan comes sometime after sunrise, when Peter's human again, all his dignity and pride gone after he'd turned back and tasted blood in his mouth and promptly thrown up until the only thing he can taste is the sour residue of vomit. He's crying hysterically into Susan's shoulder; he can't seem to be able to stop, because every time he does he remembers the way his bones twisted and the smile on the White Witch's face when she'd looked at him, the way it feels when bone cracks between his teeth, what it's like to fight and kill and like it.
Susan wraps her arms around him, murmuring nonsense into his hair as Peter spends his tears into the shoulder of her dress. Oh God, oh God, he can't let himself think, but it's creeping in anyway. He can hear the pulse of Susan's blood through her veins, the quick beat of her heart, the rasp of her breath in her throat. He can smell the fear on her -- and Edmund and Lucy too. What am I?
He can smell Aslan even before the great lion mounts the little rise that leads down to the stream. Peter raises his head from Susan's shoulder as her grip on him tightens protectively. For a moment he meets the lion's steady gaze.
Only for a moment; he can't stand it any longer. He looks away, watching the lion turn and walk back to the camp out of the corner of his eye.
Susan breathes a soft sigh of relief. "Come on," she says to him. "Let's get you cleaned up."
She helps him to his feet, Peter stumbling a little until he remembers how to balance on just two legs instead of four, and again when he puts too much weight on his bad leg. Susan catches him both times, her grip on his elbow light and sure as she steadies him.
Peter turns to her, raising one hand to touch her face as she goes still, watching him without any fear in her blue eyes. He touches the corner of her and the arch of her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. She turns her face into his hand and Peter says, his voice raw and alien to his ears, "Su."