The Battle of Shrewsbury [Werewolf AU]

[tiltingwithlips]

The day of the battle dawns cloudy and cold. The men on both sides form up as the sun rises behind the clouds, facing each other across a field of gray snow in orderly ranks.

When battle is joined, most semblance of that order disintegrates. The leaders of each army range here and there about the field, directing their troops, and soon the snow is churned and brown with mud and blood.

Most of the soldiers are too busy fighting for their lives to notice the gray wolf creeping around the edges of the battlefield, crouched low to the ground, her hackles raised and lips pulled back in a snarl. Kate has never seen a battle. It's not exactly what she was expecting.

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[tiltingwithlips]

Whining, she noses at his face, licking blood off his cheeks and mouth. There has to be something that can be done, there must--

--Oh.

It's an awful, terrifying idea.

(Falstaff has long since abandoned pretending to be dead -- although he's not entirely sure he's awake. God's blood, even in his wildest, drunkest dreams, he never thought to see anything like this!)

[valiantrebel]

Harry has long known otherwise, that the ends men make are rarely of their choosing.

But of all the ways he ever imagined himself dying on the battlefield, none of them have been so slow.

There is nothing left for him to do, lying here heaving in the mud, and if the end would just -- come, with Kate here -- oh, but if she would show him her face again --

Something in his chest begins to rattle.

[tiltingwithlips]

If there's to be any hope, do it, and pray.

She bares her teeth and sinks them into the thick leather collar around his neck, ripping it away; it's tough material, and her yanking jars him more than she'd like.

But his throat is exposed, that's the important part.

Because then -- with an apologetic nudge of her nose under his chin -- she can open her jaws and bite him.

[valiantrebel]

This must be the end. This must be where the world slips away and he's brought to his eternal reward half a heartbeat later. His limbs are cold and heavy and numb, and if the last thing he feels is her teeth in his throat -- if this is mercy--

Harry's heart begins to race. His eyes shoot open: he knows that shock of adrenaline, but he's never felt this -- this scream in every last fiber of his body. Something is -- warring in him.

His fingers curl and scrabble against the ground; now he fights for breath, and a frightened moan builds where Kate holds him.

[tiltingwithlips]

When she tastes blood, she lets go and latches onto his shoulder instead, heedless of the way the mail jolts her teeth. This is not a good place for this to happen; from what little she remembers of the experience, it isn't pleasant, and she didn't have a deathly wound in her side as well.

'Swounds, but he's heavy to drag, though. If she can get him out of plain sight, she'll settle. It won't do to have anyone coming along to finish the job Hal started, though.

[valiantrebel]

Near deadweight, to be sure, and also a mess: he's not bleeding much from the neck god god what is happening oh christ and the devil but he is starting to cough. As he expels the blood from his lungs, the wordless terror-noises grow louder (and perhaps Harry Percy might have been more stoic under different circumstances, but that's by no means guaranteed, and his body is wracked not only with wounds, but with a deeper, more fundamental pain, and even he will start to twist and kick and arch his back as he's dragged, oh god oh heaven Kate what is Kate please Kate oh god).

[tiltingwithlips]

This would be easier if he would lie still, curse him. Growling in frustration, she digs her paws into the mud and pulls harder.

At long, long last she has him at the edge of the tree, and she stops there, panting. Is the battle ending or simply moving away? She can't tell.

She bends her head and licks Harry's cheek. It's all the comfort she can think to give him right now.

[valiantrebel]

He's grown quiet, but his breath is little more than shallow panting, and his eyes stare at nothing, glazed and unfocused. Even if he comes back, he will not be able to say where he is at this moment. Not a soul on earth, himself least of all, could say how long this will last.

[tiltingwithlips]

Was it like this for her the first time? It was so long ago, she hardly remembers--

A sound behind them makes her turn.

And who should be clambering to his feet and trying to sneak across the clearing but one fat, armored fool name of Sir John Falstaff?

When he spies her, he freezes. "A-avaunt! Avaunt, I say!" He makes a hasty Sign of the Cross. "Take thy Hotspur, and to Hell with him -- but I am an honest man, unless to be fat be sin--"

Kate curls her lips and snarls at him, beginning to stalk forward.

"Avaunt!" Falstaff tries again. The wolf snaps its jaws, and Falstaff abruptly decides that devils and demons are surely better left to priests than to him. And that being the case, he had better go find a priest as quickly as possible.

Kate barks once after him as he turns tail, slipping in the mud, and flees.

[valiantrebel]

How the word spreads on a battlefield, in the thick of combat, is a mystery fit for church; yet within the hour, as sure as the armies know it's cold, every soldier in Shrewsbury knows that Hotspur is lost. How he's died, no one's certain, but his absence is keenly felt, for the king's men gain heart, suddenly, and the rebels begin to flee. The Earl of Worcester is taken prisoner, and the king passes death upon him, and Sir Richard Vernon. The Douglas flees pell-mell with his Scots, and neither Northumberland nor Glendower are within five counties of the fray.

The Prince of Wales, thanks be to God, has found his brother, John of Lancaster, and both hobble over the field toward King Henry's camp. John frowns, not only at Hal's weight slung about his shoulders, but at the figure that swift approaches. "Did you not tell me this fat man was dead?"

"I did," says Hal slowly, staring. "I saw him dead, breathless and bleeding on the ground." He halts, and hails the monstrous knight, moving at speed towards them. "Art thou alive? I prithee, speak: we will not trust our eyes without our ears!"

[tiltingwithlips]

"Hal!" Falstaff cries, slowing to a stop and puffing for breath. "No, that's certain; I am not a double man: but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. An honest Jack, sirs! And let no man gainsay it, for I have had the grace of Heaven shine upon me, and never doubt it!"

[valiantrebel]

Despite -- all the hardship of the day, Hal finds his mouth is twitching. "Hath Heaven had a dram's worth of dealings with thee today? Lord, we must all start small, even him."

[tiltingwithlips]

"More than that," Falstaff insists, offended. "Why, I should say that our Lord hath blessed me with a saint's virtue, but that to say so would be pride and so unbefitting a man of my stature."

[valiantrebel]

"And such stature!" Hal laughs. "Let's hear more, then. To what feat may we ascribe this angels' touch?"

John still looks extremely dubious and unimpressed.

[tiltingwithlips]

"Why, Hal -- you saw it yourself, did you not?"

Falstaff is suddenly uncharacteristically serious, peering at Hal.

"I fought today with none other than the devil come to drag Percy to his reward."

[valiantrebel]

Whatever merriment was in Hal's face plummets away.

"To say a thing is the devil, Jack, is a grave undertaking."

John's brow furrows deeper. "What's this?"

[tiltingwithlips]

"As grave as Percy finds himself now, I wot. And what else would you call that slavering beast? A terror it was, sir," he says to John, "or would be to any lesser man. It sprang from the ground, aye, I say, from the very ground itself, and roared for Percy's soul!"

[valiantrebel]

"Saw you such a beast, brother?"

Hal sighs. "I met a beast when I felled Percy. My armor is the proof, though I think more it was his flesh it was after."

[tiltingwithlips]

"Body and soul it took him," Falstaff intones. "Qua erat demostradum, God in Heaven cannot abide such a rebel!"

[valiantrebel]

Hal's eyebrows go up, and not merely at Falstaff's Latin. "And once it had so taken Hotspur, that was when you launched your assault?"

[tiltingwithlips]

"'Swounds, Hal, it did turn to me," Falstaff says, "as if it would devour me as well. But I stood firm! For," he says, pressing a hand to his heart, "as a virtuous man, I knew the Lord would not desert me, and strike me down if the devil did not recognize it too, for it cowered, I tell you, it cowered. 'Avaunt,' says I, 'and back unto the pit with thee!' Oh, it did not like that, I tell you. It came at me then, but it could not touch me -- such things can never touch a man of piety!" He gives Hal's armor a look down his nose. "And I should say to you, Hal, look to your soul, Hal, afore it is too late. But I stray from my tale."

[valiantrebel]

John opens his mouth, but Hal quickly shushes him. "I thank thee for thy pains, Jack. I pray you, instruct us further."

[tiltingwithlips]

Falstaff folds his hands over his belly, nodding importantly.

"It came at me, I say, and I stood firm. When it saw I would not be moved, it roared again, and let me never touch another drop of sack if the ground itself did not split before me! Oh, such a sight would harrow any man, but I say it would do many a man's soul good to see whither he might be taken if he stray from righteousness, as did that foul rebel Percy. For into that dreadful crack did the beast descend, and with Percy in its jaws -- and when the crack closed, why, I thanked the Lord that gave my arm the strength to rid England of such a villain."

[valiantrebel]

 

 

 

John blinks. "This is the strangest tale that ever I heard."

Hal hangs his head and laughs softly. "This is the strangest fellow, brother John." He gives Falstaff a long-suffering smile. "Why then, that's Percy dispensed, and Falstaff reformed. If the Hotspur be too tiresome for Hell and its devils to bear, perhaps we may look to see if he's been tossed back. But I think he must be gone, if Sir John speaks any truth in his life."

Under his light tone, though, lingers something uneasy, itching like the skin beneath his boots.

[tiltingwithlips]

"I say 'tis true," Falstaff says, "but I'll forgive you, my good Hal, if you'll say a good word to your father for me. Man does not live on the grace of God alone."