http://pjpettigrew.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
pjpettigrew.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ways_back_room2004-08-03 05:12 pm
pjpettigrew.livejournal.com) wrote in ways_back_room2004-08-03 05:12 pm
(no subject)
[OOC: I had a Milliways dream in the hospital. With me as Peter. And, being an anal geek, I wrote it down. This is what has been going on in Peter's fevered mind for the past few days.]
Peter dreams.
He is wandering through Dream's garden when he sees a grassy hill he has not seen before. He climbs to the top and spots what he thinks, at first, to be the father or elder brother of the yellow-eyed boy he once Saw standing beside Mat Cauthon. A closer look tells him that this is the same young man, only bearded and older. Harder.
What are you doing here? growls the yellow-eyed man. If a dog or a wolf could speak, Peter thinks, its growl would sound like that.
"I'm dreaming," he says, almost expecting to wake up as he says it. "Who--"
He does not get to complete the thought, for the yellow-eyed man looks perplexed, and even a little frightened. You should not be here.
"Well," says Peter with a touch of asperity, "I am here."
The yellow-eyed man seems to be speaking to somone Peter cannot see. A moment later--or is it an hour?--he turns back to Peter, pinning him with a gaze of burnished gold.
Guard Mat. It is both command and plea. Guard yourself.
A thousand questions well up in Peter's mind. How is he to guard Mat, and from what? And how? And what danger must he guard himself from? And who is this man, and what is he doing wandering into Peter's dreams? And-- And--
But all that comes out is, "I'll try."
The man bares his teeth. Do not try! Do it!
He can almost feel the jaws of a trap closing on him as he answers. "I will. I don't know how. But I will."
The young man blurs, as does the hill. When the world returns, he is standing atop a tower overlooking an ancient city. A city infested with soldiers, and burning.
He is facing a kingly man in armour, and he knows beyond question that the man is dead. After Milliways, where half the clientele is dead, it is easy to tell.
"My sister," the armoured man is saying urgently. "Have you seen my sister?"
"Hektor," he says, and the man nods impatiently. "'Skandra is fine."
Hektor's expression says plainly that he is certain Peter is lying.
"It's true. She's well. And happy, most of the time. She has friends who would give their lives for her. And"--he can't help smiling at this--"there's one I think you would be calling 'brother'. My sworn brother. Sirius." He tries to pronounce the name as Kassandra does. Sirios.
"He is worthy of her?"
Peter is not sure what Hektor means. "He is a rich man, of the oldest and noblest blood there is." This does not please Hektor; indeed, he looks deeply worried. "But as for being worthy of her--no, he'd never believe that. He regards 'Skandra as a miracle, a gift of the gods. His one thought is to make her the happiest woman in the universe. He would do anything for her. Absolutely anything."
Hektor relaxes for a moment, then tenses. "Does he know about..."
About Apollo? Peter wonders. Or about Kassandra being raped by Ajax? Or about the curse of prophecy that plagues the poor girl?
In any case, there is only one answer. "He knows."
"How does he treat her, knowing?" No question. Hektor is worried.
Peter smiles. "He treats her...gently. Lovingly. Though I think he would like to kill those who hurt her, and worse than kill."
"He truly loves her, then." Hektor's voice is soft with wonder.
"Yes. And she him."
"A great gift." And Hektor's eyes are peaceful now. "Blessings on 'Skandra and my brother Sirios. And on you, messenger..."
But the world is fading, and so is Hektor's voice. When things stabilise, he is standing outside a Charing Cross bookshop. He pushes open the door...
...and finds himself facing a man made of fire.
Where is he? demands the fiery man. Where is Aziraphale?
Peter wonders wearily if this being is human or demon. He would like to know who or what he's about to anger.
"I don't know." Which is nothing but the truth, unfortunately.
Do not lie to me, mortal. The anger in the being's voice is tangible; as it speaks, Peter feels white-hot flames licking at the palms of his hands. He chokes back a scream. I am the Metatron. And I will not be answered so by you, little traitor.
The insult rankles, not the less for being true. But who the Metatron is, Peter has no notion.
The being senses his confusion. The Metatron. The Voice of God.
The arrogance in its tone jars Peter's memory, and he hears Undersecretary of Magic Umbridge speaking for Minister Fudge, and Fudge, before that, for Crouch. "I see. Like a ministry spokesman."
The Metatron doesn't like that. If that is the best way for you to grasp it. Now. Where is Aziraphale?
Peter feels as if his ribs are about to explode. "I. Don't. KNOW."
You lie. And there is cold murder in the Metatron's voice.
Where is he? Where IS he?
Peter can only gasp. Black spots are dancing in front of his eyes. He can't understand this. Surely the Metatron should know if he's telling the truth. He's never been able to lie to Merlion or Aziraphale. The Light always knows...
The door to the bookshop crashes open, and two very unpleasant-looking men are standing there. Well...man-shaped beings. They are no more human than the Metatron.
"Beggin' yer pardon, guv," says the smaller, skinnier, weasel-faced one, "but we kin make him talk. He knows us of old, he does."
Lies. He's never seen them before in his life. But the Metatron is nodding. He is your creature. Do with him what you will.
The two man-shaped things--Weasel Face and a large, lumpy thug--grin broadly, which is when Peter notices that their teeth are pointed like a shark's, and that the sharks' teeth glisten like hot metal.
Sick terror washes through him. Enough of this strange dream. Back to Morpheus' garden.
But before he can shift one step, the creatures seize him---and, as he cries out with the pain, the three of them vanish.
When they reappear, Peter is shocked to find that he and his captors are standing in Crowley's flat.
The flat looks just like Crowley, all gleaming technology and verdant, terrified plants and bowls of polished apples. Surprisingly, most of the decor is white--white walls, white leather sofa, white chairs--with touches of blue and light green, such as drapes, a handwoven rug, and so on. The windows are large, and offer a view of the sky unbroken by the London skyline. Three pictures hang on the walls--one, a painting of a wild sea beneath a calm sky, and two others that might be photos or paintings of the heavens. One is a mural which segues from the chill blue-white Arctic sky to the warm turquoise one of the American Southwaest.
White. And all the pictures of the heavens. Oh, Crowley. As homesick as that?
"Now," says Weasel Face, "yer gonna tell us where he is. Him an' that angel o' his." He manages to make "angel" sound like "filth dripping with toxic waste."
Peter shakes his head wearily. "I told the other one. I don't know." He wonders why they are bothering with him. He is not so close to Aziraphale and Crowley. Others at Milliways are far closer.
"Don't feel like talkin', does yer?" asks Weasel Face. "Allow us to introduce ourselves."
"I'm Hastur," says the thug. "And this is Ligur. We're Grand Dukes of Hell."
"Otherwise known as Croup and Vandemar," says Weasel Face, smirking. "Your friend Door"--and 'friend' becomes slimy and obscene in his mouth--"knows us very well, she does."
"We have lots of names," sneers Hastur the Thug.
"And we have all the time there is." Ligur--Weasel Face--looks sickeningly delighted. "Now. Where'd he go?"
"I don't KNOW where Camiel is!"
At first Peter isn't aware of what he said. Then their shock and revulsion penetrate his mind.
"Camiel?" Hastur looks ill. "There is no Camiel. There hasn't been since--since longer than your race has measured time."
"If he's using that name..." mutters Ligur.
He isn't, Peter hastens to say, though he doesn't know for sure if Crowley would use that name. He doubts it. If Crowley were to resume his true name--and he senses that's what 'Camiel' is--it would cost him something, even as it cost Peter something to disavow 'Wormtail.'
Hastur and Ligur ignore Peter's response and begin shouting questions, most in languages that are long dead or that no human has ever spoken. He continues to repeat what he has already said: I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.
And would not tell them, even if he did.
A voice from nowhere--a terribly familiar voice--breaks into the questioning. "If you two cannot get answers from him, I can. He fears me as he has never feared you."
Hastur and Ligur look briefly insulted--then unaccountably begin cackling as they nod agreement. Even as they laugh, Peter feels himself pulled away to...elsewhere. A dark place, reminiscent of the lair of some great poisonous beast.
And standing directly before him is Voldemort.
"You've been hiding from me, Wormtail," he hisses. "Where have you been?"
"Peter," he corrects absently. "Not Wormtail."
Voldemort draws back--melodramatically, in Peter's opinion, but he senses that the Dark Lord recognises what the change of name means. And Voldemort's next words confirm this. "You've betrayed me."
The word itself is almost enough to trigger automatic refutation from Peter. He can all but hear himself babbling: No, my lord, I have not betrayed you, I would never betray you...
But he would. He has. He betrayed Voldemort when he gave the list of Death Eaters to Tonks. Even before, when he knelt before Sirius, and offered his life in payment.
"Yes. I have betrayed you."
It's not easy for the skull of a snake to express pure rage, but Voldemort manages it. "You dare--? You will not betray me again. Imperio!"
Half of Peter's mind fills with candyfloss. A soft, pink, comforting feeling seeps into that portion of his mind, telling him to do whatever the Dark Lord wishes, for it must be good.
The other half of his mind shifts to pure fury. No. You will not turn me into a puppet!
And as he thinks this, the candyfloss begins to melt and tear; a minute later, and it is gone.
Voldemort stares at him in shock. "You, Wormtail? You cannot possess that strength of will.
Peter says nothing. It seems useless to argue the point.
"Perhaps your favourite spell will make you more obedient," muses the Dark Lord. "Crucio!"
And now comes searing, freezing, crushing pain. It is not as bad as his memory tells him; it is fifteen times worse. He suffered Crucio so long that he has become sensitised to it.
He howls. He weeps. And still it is not enough, for the Dark Lord is gazing at him suspiciously. "Well? Will you obey me now?"
Peter is on his knees now, but he meets that flinty gaze stare for stare. "No." A classical reference, one that he knows Milliways' Tom would understand, occurs to him. "Non servio." The words of Milton's Satan to the Lord God--I will not serve. A statement of pure rebellion and unshakeable refusal.
Thinking of Milliways makes him wonder--why is he dreaming of Voldemort and Crucio? Lord Morpheus pledged that he would have no nightmares while he remained at the bar at the end of the universe.
Unless this isn't a dream...
Voldemort breaks into his thoughts. "You have changed. You no longer beg. You hate the pain, but do not fear it. And I will not have traitors about me. Ava--"
Liz! Raph! Mat! Tonks! Regulus! Fleur! Ophelia! Tom! Door! Merlion! Sirius! Kassandra! Help me!
He feels himself fading even as the Dark Lord struggles to complete the first word of the Killing Curse, and surfaces beside Lake Hogwarts. The other three are already there--Sirius, laughing at some joke he's just made; Remus, looking lazily content; James, his eyes closed, a mischievous smile curving his lips.
Not one is more than fifteen years old. And at the moment, neither is he.
He slides away from the strange and all too real dreams into a dream of star-gazing and boyish chatter and friendship. The pain and the horror and the fear evaporate like soap bubbles as Peter escapes into dreams.
Peter dreams.
He is wandering through Dream's garden when he sees a grassy hill he has not seen before. He climbs to the top and spots what he thinks, at first, to be the father or elder brother of the yellow-eyed boy he once Saw standing beside Mat Cauthon. A closer look tells him that this is the same young man, only bearded and older. Harder.
What are you doing here? growls the yellow-eyed man. If a dog or a wolf could speak, Peter thinks, its growl would sound like that.
"I'm dreaming," he says, almost expecting to wake up as he says it. "Who--"
He does not get to complete the thought, for the yellow-eyed man looks perplexed, and even a little frightened. You should not be here.
"Well," says Peter with a touch of asperity, "I am here."
The yellow-eyed man seems to be speaking to somone Peter cannot see. A moment later--or is it an hour?--he turns back to Peter, pinning him with a gaze of burnished gold.
Guard Mat. It is both command and plea. Guard yourself.
A thousand questions well up in Peter's mind. How is he to guard Mat, and from what? And how? And what danger must he guard himself from? And who is this man, and what is he doing wandering into Peter's dreams? And-- And--
But all that comes out is, "I'll try."
The man bares his teeth. Do not try! Do it!
He can almost feel the jaws of a trap closing on him as he answers. "I will. I don't know how. But I will."
The young man blurs, as does the hill. When the world returns, he is standing atop a tower overlooking an ancient city. A city infested with soldiers, and burning.
He is facing a kingly man in armour, and he knows beyond question that the man is dead. After Milliways, where half the clientele is dead, it is easy to tell.
"My sister," the armoured man is saying urgently. "Have you seen my sister?"
"Hektor," he says, and the man nods impatiently. "'Skandra is fine."
Hektor's expression says plainly that he is certain Peter is lying.
"It's true. She's well. And happy, most of the time. She has friends who would give their lives for her. And"--he can't help smiling at this--"there's one I think you would be calling 'brother'. My sworn brother. Sirius." He tries to pronounce the name as Kassandra does. Sirios.
"He is worthy of her?"
Peter is not sure what Hektor means. "He is a rich man, of the oldest and noblest blood there is." This does not please Hektor; indeed, he looks deeply worried. "But as for being worthy of her--no, he'd never believe that. He regards 'Skandra as a miracle, a gift of the gods. His one thought is to make her the happiest woman in the universe. He would do anything for her. Absolutely anything."
Hektor relaxes for a moment, then tenses. "Does he know about..."
About Apollo? Peter wonders. Or about Kassandra being raped by Ajax? Or about the curse of prophecy that plagues the poor girl?
In any case, there is only one answer. "He knows."
"How does he treat her, knowing?" No question. Hektor is worried.
Peter smiles. "He treats her...gently. Lovingly. Though I think he would like to kill those who hurt her, and worse than kill."
"He truly loves her, then." Hektor's voice is soft with wonder.
"Yes. And she him."
"A great gift." And Hektor's eyes are peaceful now. "Blessings on 'Skandra and my brother Sirios. And on you, messenger..."
But the world is fading, and so is Hektor's voice. When things stabilise, he is standing outside a Charing Cross bookshop. He pushes open the door...
...and finds himself facing a man made of fire.
Where is he? demands the fiery man. Where is Aziraphale?
Peter wonders wearily if this being is human or demon. He would like to know who or what he's about to anger.
"I don't know." Which is nothing but the truth, unfortunately.
Do not lie to me, mortal. The anger in the being's voice is tangible; as it speaks, Peter feels white-hot flames licking at the palms of his hands. He chokes back a scream. I am the Metatron. And I will not be answered so by you, little traitor.
The insult rankles, not the less for being true. But who the Metatron is, Peter has no notion.
The being senses his confusion. The Metatron. The Voice of God.
The arrogance in its tone jars Peter's memory, and he hears Undersecretary of Magic Umbridge speaking for Minister Fudge, and Fudge, before that, for Crouch. "I see. Like a ministry spokesman."
The Metatron doesn't like that. If that is the best way for you to grasp it. Now. Where is Aziraphale?
Peter feels as if his ribs are about to explode. "I. Don't. KNOW."
You lie. And there is cold murder in the Metatron's voice.
Where is he? Where IS he?
Peter can only gasp. Black spots are dancing in front of his eyes. He can't understand this. Surely the Metatron should know if he's telling the truth. He's never been able to lie to Merlion or Aziraphale. The Light always knows...
The door to the bookshop crashes open, and two very unpleasant-looking men are standing there. Well...man-shaped beings. They are no more human than the Metatron.
"Beggin' yer pardon, guv," says the smaller, skinnier, weasel-faced one, "but we kin make him talk. He knows us of old, he does."
Lies. He's never seen them before in his life. But the Metatron is nodding. He is your creature. Do with him what you will.
The two man-shaped things--Weasel Face and a large, lumpy thug--grin broadly, which is when Peter notices that their teeth are pointed like a shark's, and that the sharks' teeth glisten like hot metal.
Sick terror washes through him. Enough of this strange dream. Back to Morpheus' garden.
But before he can shift one step, the creatures seize him---and, as he cries out with the pain, the three of them vanish.
When they reappear, Peter is shocked to find that he and his captors are standing in Crowley's flat.
The flat looks just like Crowley, all gleaming technology and verdant, terrified plants and bowls of polished apples. Surprisingly, most of the decor is white--white walls, white leather sofa, white chairs--with touches of blue and light green, such as drapes, a handwoven rug, and so on. The windows are large, and offer a view of the sky unbroken by the London skyline. Three pictures hang on the walls--one, a painting of a wild sea beneath a calm sky, and two others that might be photos or paintings of the heavens. One is a mural which segues from the chill blue-white Arctic sky to the warm turquoise one of the American Southwaest.
White. And all the pictures of the heavens. Oh, Crowley. As homesick as that?
"Now," says Weasel Face, "yer gonna tell us where he is. Him an' that angel o' his." He manages to make "angel" sound like "filth dripping with toxic waste."
Peter shakes his head wearily. "I told the other one. I don't know." He wonders why they are bothering with him. He is not so close to Aziraphale and Crowley. Others at Milliways are far closer.
"Don't feel like talkin', does yer?" asks Weasel Face. "Allow us to introduce ourselves."
"I'm Hastur," says the thug. "And this is Ligur. We're Grand Dukes of Hell."
"Otherwise known as Croup and Vandemar," says Weasel Face, smirking. "Your friend Door"--and 'friend' becomes slimy and obscene in his mouth--"knows us very well, she does."
"We have lots of names," sneers Hastur the Thug.
"And we have all the time there is." Ligur--Weasel Face--looks sickeningly delighted. "Now. Where'd he go?"
"I don't KNOW where Camiel is!"
At first Peter isn't aware of what he said. Then their shock and revulsion penetrate his mind.
"Camiel?" Hastur looks ill. "There is no Camiel. There hasn't been since--since longer than your race has measured time."
"If he's using that name..." mutters Ligur.
He isn't, Peter hastens to say, though he doesn't know for sure if Crowley would use that name. He doubts it. If Crowley were to resume his true name--and he senses that's what 'Camiel' is--it would cost him something, even as it cost Peter something to disavow 'Wormtail.'
Hastur and Ligur ignore Peter's response and begin shouting questions, most in languages that are long dead or that no human has ever spoken. He continues to repeat what he has already said: I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.
And would not tell them, even if he did.
A voice from nowhere--a terribly familiar voice--breaks into the questioning. "If you two cannot get answers from him, I can. He fears me as he has never feared you."
Hastur and Ligur look briefly insulted--then unaccountably begin cackling as they nod agreement. Even as they laugh, Peter feels himself pulled away to...elsewhere. A dark place, reminiscent of the lair of some great poisonous beast.
And standing directly before him is Voldemort.
"You've been hiding from me, Wormtail," he hisses. "Where have you been?"
"Peter," he corrects absently. "Not Wormtail."
Voldemort draws back--melodramatically, in Peter's opinion, but he senses that the Dark Lord recognises what the change of name means. And Voldemort's next words confirm this. "You've betrayed me."
The word itself is almost enough to trigger automatic refutation from Peter. He can all but hear himself babbling: No, my lord, I have not betrayed you, I would never betray you...
But he would. He has. He betrayed Voldemort when he gave the list of Death Eaters to Tonks. Even before, when he knelt before Sirius, and offered his life in payment.
"Yes. I have betrayed you."
It's not easy for the skull of a snake to express pure rage, but Voldemort manages it. "You dare--? You will not betray me again. Imperio!"
Half of Peter's mind fills with candyfloss. A soft, pink, comforting feeling seeps into that portion of his mind, telling him to do whatever the Dark Lord wishes, for it must be good.
The other half of his mind shifts to pure fury. No. You will not turn me into a puppet!
And as he thinks this, the candyfloss begins to melt and tear; a minute later, and it is gone.
Voldemort stares at him in shock. "You, Wormtail? You cannot possess that strength of will.
Peter says nothing. It seems useless to argue the point.
"Perhaps your favourite spell will make you more obedient," muses the Dark Lord. "Crucio!"
And now comes searing, freezing, crushing pain. It is not as bad as his memory tells him; it is fifteen times worse. He suffered Crucio so long that he has become sensitised to it.
He howls. He weeps. And still it is not enough, for the Dark Lord is gazing at him suspiciously. "Well? Will you obey me now?"
Peter is on his knees now, but he meets that flinty gaze stare for stare. "No." A classical reference, one that he knows Milliways' Tom would understand, occurs to him. "Non servio." The words of Milton's Satan to the Lord God--I will not serve. A statement of pure rebellion and unshakeable refusal.
Thinking of Milliways makes him wonder--why is he dreaming of Voldemort and Crucio? Lord Morpheus pledged that he would have no nightmares while he remained at the bar at the end of the universe.
Unless this isn't a dream...
Voldemort breaks into his thoughts. "You have changed. You no longer beg. You hate the pain, but do not fear it. And I will not have traitors about me. Ava--"
Liz! Raph! Mat! Tonks! Regulus! Fleur! Ophelia! Tom! Door! Merlion! Sirius! Kassandra! Help me!
He feels himself fading even as the Dark Lord struggles to complete the first word of the Killing Curse, and surfaces beside Lake Hogwarts. The other three are already there--Sirius, laughing at some joke he's just made; Remus, looking lazily content; James, his eyes closed, a mischievous smile curving his lips.
Not one is more than fifteen years old. And at the moment, neither is he.
He slides away from the strange and all too real dreams into a dream of star-gazing and boyish chatter and friendship. The pain and the horror and the fear evaporate like soap bubbles as Peter escapes into dreams.
no subject
Well, shit.
This is the bomb.
Glad to see you're on the mend. >:D
no subject
no subject
no subject
Wow.
{{peter-mun}}
no subject
And wow. Lots of wow. You and your smartz. *is in wow*
no subject
I am so continually impressed with you. You just...make me smarter. Thanks for that. :)
I'm glad to hear you're mending -- looking forward to having you back! *hugs*
no subject
Welcome back!!
no subject
As much because this is bloody brilliant as because you're out of the hospital and still alive.
no subject