Title: The Wendy Bird
Fandom: Peter Pan
Pairing: Peter/Wendy
Warning: Unbeta'd nonsense
Disclaimer: Characters are property of J.M. Barrie.
The Wendy Bird
It was beckoning her away from the islands, away from the two minutes during which lagoons flew over flamingoes, or was it the other way around, no, no, she was sure it was the clouds of blue above the stretching legs of pink. She did not want to fall into sleep.
She felt her body weightless, but her mind was heavy as a descending downy feather. Her body was falling into the whites and blues of the skies with only the piteous lonely howl of her pet wolf as companion. She was sure that if she squeezed her eye-lids tight enough she could just barely make out the fairy glow of her nightlight. She whispered fervently.
Don't sleep.
The leaves of green and drops of blue grew smaller; the pillows of clouds fell around her like so much gravity. She descended upward, upward; her feathers of fingers fluttered through the wisps of white around her, weeping wets of clouds. She was an anchorless ship that pirated the blue. The entry has always been hard for one who has outgrown their white nightgown and frock of leaves and berries.
Don't sleep.
Ringing bells and hoots of Wendy Bird soared through the air. Her fall upward was suspended and immediately brought down by the shot of a kiss. She felt lips of warmth just above her heart as she grew into her youth. Neverland kissed the years from her like so many weightless clouds. The Wendy child emerged from her heart to meet the lips of Neverland, of Peter Pan, as her years and ages floated away as metamorphed white. As the years lifted, her youth sank with the hopes and dreams of old to down, down below. Wendy only thought it but he knew.
"How clever I am!" His cheeky grin stretched from ear to ear. His conceit prickled her, but she could only feel relief that he remembered.
With his arms spread wide as wings, fingers dusted in fairy gold, he flew light as dreams of sweet and sugar plums. She ascended downward into the islands of Neverland after him, clumsy with the memories of old youth. They glided into and past achromatic cotton puffs suspended in frequencies of blue until tears of unshed rain wept down their cheeks. They flew down the seamless blue into the vein of Neverland as legs and wings of pink sank into the sky above them.
In the distance the mewing of bellowing cannon balls scratched the air. They climbed the white rungs of the sky and pierced through the blue heart of her floating cloud; harmless as the glinting metallic curve of Captain Hook. It tick(led) the belly of a crocodile.
Tink.
The night was thick with the peace that smoked from the pipes, as the Piccaninny warriors danced as crackling fires. Hoots, whoops, and how-dos were exchanged as cordially as you pleased. And Peter Pan, still wet from the victory of Mermaids' Lagoon, crowed crimson from the pointed tips of his ears to the wiggling of his toes as Tiger Lily kissed the bloom into his cheeks. Wendy, the Mother, watched her animal children in human skins prowl and flitter around the licking, breathing red as she felt the animal curling within her belly.
Tink.
The forgetting crept around the corners, tricky as a blind spot. It was not a greedy thing, no, it was worse by far, because it was a sly thing, knowing to pick at bits and pieces, leaving you with just the imagination of what was there before. The forgetting picked at their mothers' kisses, and smiles until their mothers' laughs and eyes were crimson Os of befuddlement. It was all a bold red O of a Never bird's egg. The lost boys scratched their heads for so much loss. Wendy had been forgetting too.
Tink.
The cake tasted like sand and medicine in his mouth. It was not nearly as good as make-believe, but with the cream thick on his tongue and his throat full with every swallow, it came close. Peter never wondered at how a cake that was washed ashore can appear all it one piece. No, his memories had no space for such trivialities.
Your light is going out.
He smiled at the girl who ran to him in her nightgown, leaving sand footprints in her wake. Her toes were dusted in gold but she did not take flight, Peter marveled idly if her dreams were sticky sweet like medicine. Her name was a lost thing, the hem of her gown flapped white in the wind, and he smiled at her around the mouthful of cake. His first teeth gleamed dove-feathers in the sun. As night approached around the edges, though it was dawn just two minutes ago, he thought perhaps he will introduce this girl, whose cheeks were drenched in salt, to the mermaids.
Clap your hands.