Blood clung to the pirate's skin like dew drops on a leaf.
Bill Jukes had a son, and it was he who instigated the fight, for Peter had been merely scouting the dense jungle for something to do-adventures were becoming rarer by the day, and not having the boys around made his hours lonelier still, though he would never admit it aloud.
Unlike his father, whose every inch was blotted by innumerable tattoos and who perished under Peter's hand on the day of the slaughter of Hook's men, Jukes minor had only one tattoo. It was an elaborate scene of death and destruction that ran the length of his right arm, painted by a skilled artisan who demanded five Picaninny scalps as payment. Jukes minor had waited so long to execute his vendetta, and chose that moment to utter a howl that sounded like that of a white wolf, ready to draw blood. Of course Peter heard it and thinking a beast wanted to have a fair match, immediately landed silently on the brush and awaited his opponent.
Jukes struck first, but he was old; his knife only grazed a millimeter of Peter's skin, hardly wounding him. Peter turned, surprised. "And who are you?" he asked.
"Son of Bill Jukes, terror of the mainland," came the reply.
Peter smiled, though he had no idea who Bill Jukes was. You see, he forgot his enemies as soon as he killed them. This smile infuriated the pirate, for it was the perfect blend of arrogance and youth. Jukes minor gritted his teeth, which Peter took as an invitation. Without another word, they fell to.
Already Peter was winning.
Such was his skill with the blade, he appeared as if he were performing a particularly intricate dance on a stage, with thousands of spectators eying his every move. He moved with easy grace, his feet never leaving the ground, for it wouldn't be fair to his opponent if he flew. Peter's wrist-play was superb, his overall mastery unquestionable, so much so that within a minute, even for all his might and size, Jukes minor was severely bloodied. Scratches and slashes and nicks decorated his skin where his threadbare garments did not cover it.
Peter was hardly breaking a sweat. This was much too easy. He was having a marvelous time showing the pirate up, but he was not doing any damage that would not heal in time: he was just playing. Jukes minor swore every so often and breathed heavily, but fought on.
"Brimstone and gall, Jukes," Peter scoffed in an accent that was vaguely Hook's (though he did not remember him), "Why, the deterioration in your skill is...startling. I daresay it left you like your youth did!"
The pirate, maintaining the battle he was going to lose, retorted, "At the very least, insolent lad, I am not trapped within a shell that does not reveal the truth behind my existence."
This affected Peter remarkably, but he knew better than to show it. The ink patterns on the pirate's arm were nearly obliterated under all the blood oozing from his wounds. When at last Peter felt the first symptoms of weariness nudge at him, he prepared to deliver the fatal blow.
And he would have done it...if not for the sensation rising quickly inside him.
It started from his chest, then spread out all over his body like fissures on the ground. He faltered. Suddenly, killing this old pirate did not seem like a priority. The feeling inside him engulfed all his thoughts. Something was wrong.
A sharp pain erupted at the back of his hand, causing him to drop his dagger. Jukes had wounded him. But it was nothing compared to the sensation growing inside him exponentially. It wasn't quite like his other pains, which were nothing but physical.
But how...what...who...?
The answer came to him soon, and he didn't know how he knew, but he did.
Wendy.
The pirate could only look up, flabbergasted, as Peter rose in the air despite the scratch that was bleeding on his hand. Like a rocket, he shot straight up until the thick white clouds always cloaking Neverland hid him from view. Peter Pan went with his life in a relaxed pace, but when triggered like he was just now, he could fly very close to the speed of sound.
He had been feeling the same sensation in his chest for many moons now, but this so far was the greatest in intensity. It could immobilize the weak, but it only made him feel more alive. So he flew, without regard for anything much but the burning determination to get to Wendy as quickly as he can.
The sensation was ebbing, and he guessed it was imperative that he made it before it disappeared entirely, because he did not want to miss a beat when it came to Wendy. His first mother. His best friend. The only person he could never forget. Jane and Margaret were different. There was no one in all of the world like Wendy. And Peter felt like she was suffering.
Peter zipped by the stars at an unbelievable velocity, the wind ripping through his hair and clothes. It did not take long before the highrises of London appeared below him, bathing the young night in their artificial light, much to the dismay of the stars, for they like to be observed. It was annoying them they could not even be seen.
The Darling House was still there, proud and erect, even after more than half a century in mortal years.
To Peter's delight, the window was open. For him. He flew in, stepped on the sill, and dropped in on the floor. Two women were in the room-one was old and withered, lying on the bed, and sitting on a chair and holding her hand was a younger woman. The woman on the chair turned, and upon seeing Peter her face lit up. "You have come," she said.
"Of course, Jane," Peter said. "What is the matter?"
Jane gestured toward the older woman. Peter's heart sank. The face was sad and wrinkled, the skin hung loose, but it was Wendy, alright. It only took one glance for Peter to confirm his worst suspicions. Wendy was dying.
He drew near the bed. "She has taken to sleeping in the nursery again for a week now," Jane said. "Won't let a doctor come near her since, said she was going if she was going, and they must not stop her."
Peter nodded. To her mother Jane said, "Peter is here, Mother."
Wendy raised a thin hand in greeting. Then she spoke. Her voice had changed, but in it remained the strength of her bygone youth. "I don't suppose he has come to whisk me away for spring cleaning," she said. "He has forgotten all about me and you, Jane."
"I haven't," Peter said, but that was not exactly true. Jane would tell him that he hadn't returned in thirty-seven years. "I am here now, Wendy mother. What can I do for you?"
Wendy essayed to smile. "Do sit down, Peter Pan, my child. It is time for my last story."
Peter had heard hundreds of stories from Wendy over the course of his life, but he never fathomed there would actually be a last. Most of the time he was chiefly thinking of himself. Fear assailed him from every direction and there was nothing he could do.
"There was a boy," Wendy began. Then she coughed. It was effort for her to bring out a single word, but she was trying. "There was a boy, who, when I was but a little girl, took me away to a fantastical place called Neverland." She paused. It was a fastidiously long pause that Peter, under normal circumstances, would have already been complaining. Wendy was falling asleep.
Do not fall asleep, of fair Wendy, for you might never wake.
"We had countless adventures. O, what fun we had together-Jane, dearest, are you listening?"
"I am, Mother."
Wendy continued, "But then it was over too soon, you see, because I had to return home and grow up. I tell you, Jane. Being parted from that sweet child: it was the hardest thing. I saw him every spring, until he stopped coming. Growing up was beastly. I disliked every part of it. But then I met your father, and we were married, and I had you, Jane. I was happy. Now I have Margie as well, and I am still happy, Jane, my dear, and I would like to die while I am happy."
Peter waited, for it couldn't be the end just yet. It wasn't even a story, but if these were the last words Wendy would ever say, he was determined to hang on. "Is Peter Pan really here?" Wendy asked.
"Yes," Peter said, and stood before her. "Oh," Wendy said. She was already losing her voice. She raised her ancient hand, and Peter knelt so she could touch his face. "Ah, good God. Peter..."
"Wendy."
"You are real."
"Do not die," he pleaded. He had never pleaded for anything before this.
"But I must, and the time has come. Goodbye, my dears. I hate what I am about to say, but I am only human. Do not mourn me too long, but do not forget me too soon."
"I won't," Peter promised. Jane had lost the ability to speak. Wendy sighed. "All is well." She closed her eyes. She did not speak again.
It was well into the night when she finally died, eyes closed and hands folded on her chest, as if she had prepared herself. She had lived eighty-nine long years; she had grown from a wide-eyed young girl to a fair maiden to a devoted wife to a faultless mother, but Fate had already cut her string, and it was no use beating around the bush any longer: Wendy Darling was no more.
A darkness even blacker than the night fell upon them. It was as if with Wendy's passing, the stars had all lowered their lights and mourned with Peter. Nothing made a single sound. It was just Peter and a fount of grief that was essaying and almost succeeding in swallowing him whole.
It would have been much easier to have resorted to his most trusted form of evasion: pretension. It would have been better if he had worn his mask of hauteur and shrugged at all this-he could have fooled everyone, even himself, into thinking that being incapable of feeling was truthfully part of the riddle of his being. Instead, he chose to welcome the sorrow that appeared all of a sudden before him, thinking that it was beneath him, but also thinking that you could build solid walls around grief but once you let it crack, no amount of repair could stop the tide from coming in.
Peter was a little boy still, and little boys ought to be spared the suffering of seeing a loved one pass away, but he was no ordinary little boy. He had let a thousand deaths go before his eyes, yet none of them affected him in any remarkable manner. This did, and it was like every pain he chose not to feel all his life went coming back to him, now, in this precise moment of weakness.
He cried.
His knees gave way, and he curled into a sitting position: the same position that led him to make the acquaintance of the girl that stole his innocent heart, though he was unaware of it at the time. She had asked why he was crying, and he told her he wasn't. Well, he was crying now. The only difference was she was not around to ask him why anymore.
Jane-fair, tall, grown-up Jane-put an arm around the miserable boy and spoke to him in whispers. She was weeping herself. Wendy lay lifeless on the bed, oblivious to it all. Peter stood and wiped his eyes. He was never one for tears. But the pain drummed steadily inside of him, unceasing and revolting, like the ticking of a clock inside the crocodile from so long ago.
When at last he came to terms with the fact that Wendy was really gone, the he would never again hear her voice, he gave her one last glance. All he could see was the pretty young thing he met when he went looking for his shadow, the fateful night that changed his life forever. She had been very much like a mother: prim and proper, very clever, and immensely charming, with those sweet eyes as blue as the ribbon in her long hair.
Peter heaved a great sigh, then with much difficulty tore his gaze away from Wendy. He had looked at her for the last time, and he was resolute never to look again.
I bid you farewell, old friend.
Jane was waiting by the window, crying and hugging herself. "Will you come back for her next spring?" she asked, referring to Margaret, her daughter. Peter was vibrant and full of life once more. He nodded and darted quickly out the window-he just had enough happy thoughts to make himself airborne.
He flew away without looking back, saying to himself, "Of course I will come back."
There was no one to hear him but the stars, silent and formidable in their perch in the firmament. But 'twas a promise, and they would hold him to it.
I hope you liked this one-shot. I am currently hyped up on happy thoughts because of a short film called East of Kensington, written and directed by Kellen Moore. It is a 20-minute film that portrays a different, darker side of Peter Pan. I haven't seen it yet, but I would want to. If this captures your fancy, as it very well should, and if you have the means, you can go to this link ( /projects/1062355760/east-of-kensington-the-dark-s i de-of-peter-pan) and back the project by pledging an amount, which will be compensated by perks in various degrees of awesomeness. The title of this fic is borrowed from the movie's tagline. Goodbyes are not forever.
Reviews are greatly appreciated. :)