Let me begin by saying that, in my heart at least, Peter Pan has absolutely stolen the spot of favorite character right out from underneath Jefferson's backside. Robbie Kay plays him beautifully (not to mention, Robbie Kay is beautiful) and every time he comes onscreen, I get the slightest bit anxious. When have good things ever happened with Peter onscreen, I mean, really? The only problem is when Peter's onscreen, all I long for is more smiling from him, which is probably just more Robbie fangirling. Somehow, my mind decided that a girl around would make him smile more and since the writers have already taken care of Wendy, who else would be a natural fit? And so, this fic was born.
Part One and Part Two take place on the same night, whereas Part Three picks up directly after the seventh episode of Season 3, Dark Hollow. Enjoy!
The first thing she heard was the sloshing of water against wood. That wasn't anything out of the ordinary, of course. Rushing waves had been the sound she'd fallen asleep to; in fact, on calmer nights, she'd often used the tides comings and goings as a lullaby, relaxing her, easing the day's stress away.
This hadn't been a calm night.
Her head lolled as the canoe shifted, long, dark hair moving to tickle her nose. She snorted and her father's hand came up to rest on her head, strong and gentle. "Sleep, my flower," he told her. "There is still far to go."
As her eyes slid shut again, she thought about what they were doing. In a boat, surrounded by other boats, manned by other men and women who were committing the same crime. No matter what name you call it by, she mused, a retreat is still running away from a fight.
A fire rose in her belly as she considered it, warm, familiar. The tribe could've taken them, Lewis and Clark, those traitors. Take care of them first and then move on to the rest, the ones they'd brought with them, spill their blood on the stones, let it wash into the rivers and stain them red, let the land taste their victory, yes yes, her heart thrummed with righteous fury, they would not get away with it, they could n-
The canoe bumped against sand, jolting her out of her thoughts. Her father was already standing, giving orders, being a chief. Someone offered her a hand to pull her ashore, but before they could, she was hoisted up onto her father's shoulder. Perhaps he still thought her asleep? Or perhaps he thought she lacked the strength that standing required. Her teeth gritted, but she restrained herself. He was her chief. She would obey.
People spilled from canoes, carrying with them all that they'd brought in their haste to leave the land she called home. She looked around, blinked once, twice. Of all the abilities she boasted, she did not have night vision, but this place that they'd landed looked to be thickly forested. Her eyes narrowed. Plants meant coverage for hostiles or - what had Clarke called her? A savage. Coverage for savages.
"You all look rather lost." A voice. Smooth, lilting. His speech was much more soothing than Lewis and Clark's had been. Everyone else's eyes swept in the direction her back was facing and she cursed her father for not trusting his sixteen-year-old daughter to stand upright without causing trouble.
She felt the change in his posture as her father straightened, addressing the smooth-voiced speaker. "We come from long way," he said, struggling to make use of the little English he knew.
The other voice laughed. "Everyone comes a long way to get to Neverland," was his response. "I assume you came here seeking sanctuary?" His voice grew louder. Closer. "I rule here, so I'm the only one in position to grant it." Her father's body tensed.
"But you've caught me in a giving mood this evening, so I'll let you stay here. Temporarily," he continued. The chief's posture remained stiff and she realized that he didn't know what this stranger offered. He could barely understand simple English as it was, let alone the elegant speech of the newcomer. Immediately, she began squirming, silently begging to be let down.
The man with the lilting speech must've noticed this, for next she heard, "What's that on your shoulder? A trophy?" Only at that did her father take her down from his shoulder and plant her bare feet firmly on the sandy shore.
At first glance, she didn't want to believe what her eyes were telling her. Where was the man with the smooth voice? Who was this strange boy with his not-like-Lewis-and-Clark clothing and eyes like ice? But she was not stupid - she was thoughtless, she was impulsive, but she was not stupid - and she knew better than to waste time with questions.
Turning to her father, she explained the offer to him in their native tongue. "He wishes to help us, Father," she said. "He will let us stay here for a time." Her voice caught on her next words. "He rules this land."
The chief looked as skeptical as she felt. How could this person, this boy who couldn't be too much older than her, rule anything? Could his father have been a chief who died too early? But, no. He couldn't be a chief. He was a like-Lewis-and-Clark. A white man. He was a savage.
It took her a few seconds to realize that she'd murmured these words aloud and, horror of horrors, in English. In an instant, his eyes fixed upon her, but he didn't seem angry. No, he seemed almost... pleased. A bark of laughter escaped his throat, bitter, sharp. He slipped the slightest bit closer to her. She ignored her father's stern fingers on her arm.
"What's your name?" he asked her, his voice soft. It amazed her how quickly his voice could shift itself and morph into something new and in the midst of her awe, her real name slipped out: "Tigerlily." Her father's fingers were going to leave bruises.
The boy's lips curved upward in a half-smile and he bent slightly at the waist. A bow; Lewis had showed her one before. A sign of goodwill. It was etiquette, whatever that was. "I am Peter Pan. And yes, Tigerlily. I am a savage." He hovered just in front of her. Her eyes remained fixed on his. "I am a savage of the worst kind."
And so there came to be Indians in Neverland.
