Chapter Text
Peter had never voiced this observation out loud, considering this was an unspoken rule in Heaven, but the state in-which a winner died would often manifest in some way or form. The physical wounds would certainly heal with time, but it was always the psychological scars that were far more difficult to overcome.
Though, without fail, every winner eventually forgot all of their earthly worries.
He was never made privy to the machinations behind that process, but Peter always suspected that it would take far more than a group therapy session for anyone to forget about their pasts…afterall, it’s not like every winner was guaranteed the chance to reunite with their loved ones in death. And despite Adam’s rather…crude remarks and Lute’s mean-spirited jabs [Peter would by lying if he said that he wasn’t the tiniest bit insulted over Lute calling him Heaven’s over-glorified mascot], he actually does take this job very seriously, thank you very much!
There’s much more that goes into greeting Heaven’s latest arrivals than anyone might realize, and speaking of which, judging by the chiming of alarm bells, they’re due for new arrival right about now.
Huh…that’s odd……
Peter looks left and right, though he’s unable to catch eye or tail of their latest arrival. Though, he feels a sense of foreboding, of déjà vu, considering this can mean only one thing.
He prays that he’s wrong as he leans over the podium, and…Peter’s heart plummets as he catches sight of a small bundle of fur cowering on the ground.
It’s a child, Peter’s mind unhelpfully suggests. His heart clenches at the sight, but this is just a part of the job. Child deaths aren’t exactly uncommon, considering just how many child workers he had to welcome into Heaven during the Industrial Revolution. Though, maybe this child may have died from an illness…?
Peter gently steps away from the podium, before kneeling beside the small boy. And now that he’s gotten a closer look, he realizes that this child looks just like a newborn fawn. “Welcome to Heaven, my dear,” Peter says, inwardly wincing at the unintentional pun.
The small fawn stops shivering momentarily, before he slowly raises his head—
And…it’s now that Peter realizes the poor dear is entirely soaked in blood. Peter clamps his hands over his mouth, stopping himself from screaming bloody murder, lest he accidentally scare this child half to death [Double-death].
Oh, no, no, no……
“You’ll be just fine,” Peter stammers, only to correct himself. “Uhm, well, this is Heaven! I’m sure we’ll find your...family?”
The fawn’s large brown eyes well up with tears, small frame shaking as he whispers, “Maman?”
Peter nods his head. “Right…right! Your mother must be around here somewhere…let me just see, you must be…” And quickly, Peter stands up to his feet, before rushing over quickly to the podium to fetch his logbook of ‘recently deceased winners.’ “Let’s see…are you Alastor?”
Averting his eyes, the small fawn quietly nods his head.
“Okay, you were born, January 1, 1904…died August 15, 1909. Alastor Hartfelt, survived by both of his parents……” Peter quietly mutters under his breath. All color drains from his face once he gets to ‘cause of death.’
On the fifteenth of August, nineteen-oh-nine, Alastor Hartfelt had attempted to save his mother from a late night intruder, who happened to be his father. An altercation ensued, and Alastor Hartfelt was stabbed to death by his father, XXXX XXXXXX in a fit of drunken rage.
An entire lifetime condensed into two sentences. Alastor’s life didn’t even begin yet.
Peter shuts the book closed, though with a bit too much force than he intended. Alastor immediately raises his head, large brown eyes wide in alarm. Peter offers him a gentle smile, though Alastor merely stares at him.
Blood continues to drip down his curly brown hair, and his shirt is entirely drenched in blood.
Peter desperately wishes that this child died quickly, but he knows very well the exact opposite happened. And it’s not exactly the first time that he’s encountered a case like Alastor’s. Though, he’s sadly one of the more…early cases, even for his general area. Peter had to welcome a teenager from Alastor’s general area just last week, who was tragically lynched. And the week before that, a woman from a plantation on the outskirts of New Orleans had been hunted for sport.
They were both far too young, but Alastor’s case is…
And Peter doesn’t fucking understand how any parent, any father, could to this to their child. But considering Alastor had grown up in Louisiana, Peter suspects that his father must’ve been a white man. And as for Alastor’s poor mother…?
Well, considering Alastor is right here, his mother will surely follow soon after……
All he can pray for is that her demise is quick, and that this pitiful child will once again reunite with his mother.
[Peter thought that the amount of gruesome deaths would drop significantly once slavery was abolished in America, but the numbers hadn’t changed in the slightest.]
“Maman…?”
Peter forces on a smile, though his eyes betray his emotions. And it’s quiet for a brief moment, as Alastor blankly stares up at him. And…Peter finds it hard to believe that this child is only five, what with his cherubic face and large doe eyes. He’s so…so young. He had his whole life ahead of him.
Though, Peter wonders what sort of future would have been afforded to a mixed race human child.
Surely, Alastor’s life would have been……
“Maman?” Alastor asks, tears threatening to spill as he tentatively takes a closer step to Peter. His wings are flapping slightly, though as a recently deceased soul, he’s still unable to fly. Peter had already [discretely] called for help, to get this child to a hospital where their healers can mend his external wounds.
He doesn’t seem to be in [physical] pain though, so perhaps the blood is just a holdover from his life? A transitional period of sorts...?
“Where’s maman?” Alastor whispers, eyes downcast.
“I’m sorry, dear, but your mother isn’t here yet—”
“Maman…where is maman!!?” Alastor cries, hands bawled into fists as he collapses onto the ground. He buries his face in his hands, crying, shrieking, calling again and again for his mother.
Peter’s throat hitches, tears threatening to spill. “Don’t worry, your mother’s going to be here soon…”
And how fucked is that? For Peter to genuinely hope that poor woman is also murdered alongside her son?
Though, as the minutes pass by…she’s still not here.
That sense of foreboding looms over him once more. He’s half torn between trying to comfort this recently deceased child, or trying to find a cherub who can check up on his mother [Even though it’s forbidden for him to directly and indirectly interfere with mortals]. However, as he rifles through his podium, he comes across a plush doll that a certain archangel [Their only currently existing archangel, Uriel] had left behind.
Coincidentally enough, it’s a plush toy of a fawn with large, button eyes.
Peter wastes no time in presenting the stuffed deer over to the baby fawn. “Look—an archangel left a special present for you!” Peter exclaims, kneeling beside Alastor. He places the deer plushie onto his lap, waving of its hooves in a mock salute. “He says hello!”
Alastor’s still crying, tears dripping down his face. But he slightly smiles, pained, confused, though he hesistantly reaches over for the stuffed deer, only to visibly flinch and back away at the last second.
He shakes his head, covering his ears with his hands. “You’re a stranger!”
“I suppose I am,” Peter agrees. “But between you and me, I’m the…” his gaze flickers over to the stuffed deer. And while Peter knows that Lute and Adam will have a field day with this if they ever find out, he says, “I’m Heaven’s mascot!”
Silence. Followed by—
“What’s a mascot?”
“Oh, I’d say this deer right here is a mascot!” Peter beams, holding the stuffed deer toy over to Alastor. And finally, Alastor accepts the deer, albeit hesitantly.
He cradles the deer to his chest, before quietly murmuring, “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, buddy,” Peter says, gently patting Alastor’s head.
Alastor visibly flinches, and Peter immediately lets go. Right…right……
Considering Peter hasn’t been to earth in thousands of years [give or take a few hundred], he sometimes forgets that humans…especially humans like Alastor, would be wary around him. He’s as ‘human’ as they come when it comes to angelic appearances, but he does look an awful lot like those…men, in terms of complexion. The very same ones who kill innocents like Alastor. Though, since Alastor doesn’t seem to be particularly scared of him, Peter’s thankful that it means he likely doesn’t look even remotely like his father.
“Are you going to name that deer?”
Alastor blinks, and his face is scrunched up in concentration as he intensely stares at the stuffed deer. If it wasn’t for all of the blood [And the fact that he’s literally a dead baby], Peter would say it’s really cute.
“What’s your name?” Alastor asks, no longer crying as he stares up at him.
Offering Alastor a warm smile, Peter says, “I’m Peter.”
Alastor looks at Peter, before turning back towards the stuffed deer. “No, he’s Peter,” Alastor corrects, nearly shoving the stuffed deer into Peter’s face.
At this, Peter lightly chuckles. “Oh, right, please forgive me, Peter! Wait…but if he’s ‘Peter,’ then who am I?”
“You’re ‘Alastor!” Alastor exclaims, pointing at [angel] Peter.
“Okay, now you’re just being silly,” Peter laughs. “You’re Alastor.”
Alastor shakes his head. “I’m not,” he mutters, distractedly tossing the stuffed deer up and down. “Dada—uhhh, he called maman a…said I was…..” His voice tapers off as he attempts to recollect what was clearly his final moments before death.
Peter immediately mood immediately sombers. And while it’s good that this child is distracted, it still doesn’t change the fact that as far as Peter can tell, Alastor’s mother isn’t here.
Not yet, at least.
He’d ask Alastor if he has any family up here. Siblings, maybe. Any Aunts or Uncles? Grandparents? But from what Peter had gleaned about humans [Particularly ones with similar upbringings to Alastor], their families tend to be rather displaced at best, and non-existent at worst.
Even if this fawn does have family up here in Heaven, how would Peter even be able to find him?
Sera might be better at that sort of thing, considering she used to be Michael’s most valued advisor. And Sera always was pretty good at keeping Heaven’s archival systems neat and orderly, but ever since nearly every archangel disappeared…ever since Uriel locked himself away in his torture chambers [He’s been kept rather busy for the past few decades, considering there was no shortage of sinners to judge, and sadly…it looked like his workload was going to ease up anytime soon]…well, a lot of changes had happened since the turn of the millennium.
While Sera would be significantly better at locating this child’s ancestors, she’s been far too overworked.
It’s not Peter’s place to question how things are run here, but he’s still completely baffled by how a single seraphim had been elevated to the highest position in Heaven. Second to that of the Lord, of course. He’s not doubting Sera’s capabilities, but it just seems…counterproductive—
All at once, Peter’s thoughts are brought to a screeching halt as an ear-piercing shriek causes him to protectively scoop Alastor into his arms, attempting to protect himself from……
“Oh, you’re…you’re here,’ Peter says, before presenting Alastor up to Abel.
Abel, for his part, seems to be taking this whole ‘recently murdered fawn’ situation very well. And by that, Peter means that Abel nearly faints on the spot.
“He’s deer!” Alastor points at Abel.
Peter softly smiles. “You’re definitely right about that.”
Alastor unblinkingly stares up at Peter. He matches the blonde man’s smile, before he cheerfully asks, “Is he dead?”