A/N: I wrote this quite a while ago, but I decided to publish it anyway. It was my first fanfiction, and even though parts are imperfect, I enjoyed the idea and hope you might enjoy it too. So here it is. :) Thank you for reading!
PS- I took a few artistic liberties in regards to Wendy's life and family.
The End of an Adventure
It was a peaceful, clear, spring morning when Wendy died. Outside, robins and sparrows were greeting each other after a long winter as the sun peeked over the earth to welcome a new day; a new day that would hold sadness for people everywhere until the ends of time. Inside a London home, all was silent as a great lady said goodbye to her children, grandchildren, and her remaining brothers, and left this world for another; a different sort of never-land. There were no last words- she could not speak; but her legacy and stories speak for themselves. It was a time to remember, a time to contemplate; but not a time to cry, only a time to think on the life she had. It was a time to honor her by living our lives to the fullest.
The funeral was a simple one, short and bitter-sweet, but many crowded into the small church on her behalf. The preacher spoke, as well as her adopted brother Curly, her daughter Jane, and her son Henry Jr. She was an extraordinary woman, brimming with a passion for life and a deep love for family that few others possess. She will ever be missed by those who knew her. After the ceremony, she was buried just outside of London in a small cemetery.
The obituary was in the newspaper on April 5, three days following her passing and the day before the funeral. The time of death was seven twenty-three A.M. She was preceded in death by her husband Henry Austin, three of her brothers, and her parents. The writing was elegant and perfect, just as she would have wanted it.
The short excerpt spoke of a beautiful and prestigious woman, the most respected novelist in all of England. It spoke of a woman who loved her family more than life itself. It spoke of a giving woman, a caring woman, a woman with a grand imagination. It described the things most important to her, and what a worthy tribute it was.
However, reading it was and is always saddening to me. Wendy likely would have disagreed, but I forever felt, upon the first reading until the last, that no description would ever be able to capture the spirit of this lady. Wendy Moira Angela Darling was irreplaceable, indescribable, and those who have not lived in her story will never understand nor believe it.
Nevertheless, I am writing this, not for myself, but for her. Her story has been told to many, but somehow it is always received as a fairytale, a whimsical fantasy. Few know that it is the truth, and Wendy will allow them to believe that, because she forever held that magic will only be accepted by those who choose it. Now she is gone, and cannot tell the tale, but I affirm the truth in hopes that one day, someone with an open heart will hear, and believe. The following I enclose to finish her story because it is a story without a proper conclusion. This may not be a happily ever after, but it is a hopefully ever after, because with a bit of faith, trust, and pixie dust, her legacy, and the legacy of a boy she loved, will live forever.
-Toodles Darling
XXX
Wendy never did see Peter Pan again after that day in the window following a beautiful adventure, but he never forgot her, as he promised. I know, because though she did not see him, there were some who did, and I was one of them.
After Neverland, Wendy continued to tell Michael, John, and the no-longer Lost Boys her stories, and most of them were about Peter Pan. Each time she told them, she appeared to be in another world, dreaming about him, and every time she told a different story, it was one of his favorites. Her eyes were misty, and her words powerful, and I will ever hold in memory the day she published her first book, their story. She was only eighteen at the time, probably because she could not wait a moment longer, and that book was her most prized possession. It was only one of many, as she wrote up until the day she died, but she carried it always. The first copy, handwritten, worn, and leather bound, followed her even to the grave; it was buried with her.
Every night, though she never knew it, Pan was at the window, listening. The window was either opened or unlocked, for she couldn't let go of the idea that he would come back someday, but he chose to stay hidden. I believe he knew that if he ever spoke to her again, it would only break both hearts because he could never stay.
And so he sat beneath the sill, waiting for the last words, "and they all lived happily ever after," before turning and flying back to the second star on the right. And each night, Wendy would stare out into the sky, remembering him as she searched the heavens, but somehow missing the subtle hints he left behind.
Whenever I or one of the other Lost Boys went to the window, we saw the signs that declared his presence, because we had lived and learned so much more in Neverland. There on the paint could be found a footprint made of light glitter- tell-tale pixie dust. The ivy would have a few snapped off leaves, but nothing more. And there, I remember missing an old friend and a home I wouldn't see again.
The first time I actually saw Peter after leaving Neverland was about a year following the night I met Mother. Wendy wasn't home; in fact, she was at a grown-up party that her brothers, including myself, felt was absolutely ridiculous. Peter had come to hear her stories, and by a miracle, Curly just happened to be leaning out the window in boredom when he appeared. Pan tried to disappear quietly when he realized the absence of a circle of intent listeners, but Curly called out, and soon all the Lost Boys were crowding into the night air to see him. In the illusive way he has, he grinned at us, then finally flew straight at us, landing on the ledge as we all tumbled backward. I remember being an excited little boy, and being the first to run at him before we tackled him to the floor in the middle of the room, and I remember how strange it was that many of us were already taller than he. I remember that he told us the adventures he had had without us, but he agreed they were nothing like they would have been had Captain James Hook still been alive. We attempted to tell him about a few made up adventures we had had, as well, but too many storytellers telling a nonexistent story lead to an in-understandable mess. He asked about Wendy, trying to be vague, and we told him that she was regrettably growing up. He pretended that that was okay, as we knew he would, but we knew that it wasn't. And then, almost as soon as he had come, he was gone. Simply deciding that he needed to go back to Neverland, he turned and flew from the house, grinned mischievously, and in a moment, rocketed away to an unreachable star. One of the Lost Boys, though I don't remember who now, even tried to fly out into London after him, but we stopped him before he could plummet off the edge; we could no longer do such things. With sad faces, we simply stared into forever until Mother, Father, and Wendy came home and put us to bed. I remember that none of us ever told who we had seen that night.
Peter Pan began visiting us every few months from then on through childhood, waiting for the adults to be gone so he could "awe us with his cleverness," and we kept the meetings a secret. But as we grew and he did not, he eventually stopped coming when I was about fifteen or sixteen. Wendy moved out and there were no more stories in the Darling home, and he had no reason to return. I didn't see him again for many years, so many that I almost could have believed Neverland and my life there to be nothing more than the imagination of a child. Almost.
Before I knew it, I was married with three young children, and it was Christmas time. Christmas Eve, I told my children a story; a story about Christmas in a place to the second star on the right and straight on til morning, before sending them to sleep so Saint Nicolas could come. I remember walking tiredly but happily to the parlor, and peeking out on a dreaming London, and I remember seeing a glitter out of the corner of my eye. And then he was there. I opened the window, and the moment felt so surreal as I looked down at a boy wearing leaves and a small smile, perching so many feet above the ground. He flew into the room, fluttering near the ceiling before gaining courage and landing in the center of the room. He was definitely Peter, but that night I finally realized that even though he had not aged, he had changed when his greatest friends and his Wendy left. As a boy, I never noticed, but as a man, I knew it was true. No, he never would grow up; but he would never be the same, carefree, and cocky youth he had once been.
We talked quietly, and the visit was short; he had come for the stories, as he always would. Somehow I knew my children would never meet him as Wendy, Michael, and John had; he would never reveal himself to any but the lost and wandering again, I somehow knew. But he was here; here to wish a happy Christmas to a man who had been lost as a little boy.
That was the last time I talked to Peter Pan, the one child who would never grow up, who would live indefinitely in a realm untouched by reality. I saw him through the glass time and time again, listening intently as I dazzled my children with our adventures, but he wasn't there when I finally finished and stood at the window that kept the night air and a young boy away. And I knew he never would be.
The day of Wendy's funeral was full of family and friends sharing their sorrow, but in the back of the chapel, a boy sat in a rumpled, ragged, and much too large suit, all alone. His head was bent, obscuring my view of him, and he sat as far from everyone else as possible. No one even seemed to notice him, except myself, but sensing something I can't explain, I left him alone as the clock ticked on. The entire time, he was silent, bent as if in prayer or crying, and I felt connected to him, and I felt the sadness as he did, but it was different somehow. And then the meeting ended.
The boy followed the throng to the graveyard as I watched, but when I looked away, he was gone. But there, in a nearby tree, I thought I heard a rustle as Wendy Moira Angela Darling Austin was laid to rest, the preacher droning on as the sun rose ever higher in the sky. The entire time, I felt the boy's presence, and his spirit felt old for such a young man. I waited in the shade as day moved forward and forward, and as the pain turned from sharp stabs into a dull ache as her memory was put to sleep with her body.
Hours trickled by as people left little by little, moving on to the luncheon and their daily activities, almost as if they had already forgotten the woman that had changed their lives. As the sun began its downward decline into the late, spring afternoon, only two people remained in the corner of the cemetery where a great lady had been buried beneath a tiny upright headstone and a tree. I turned to go, but stopped myself just out of sight of the young man perched in the branches. I waited for what felt forever, but I was drawn to witness whatever was about to happen. Part of me knew I would forever remember the following moment, a beautiful and yet tragic moment that was almost lost to history and a distant place.
The leaves parted with a whisper, and out of the midst flew a boy who no longer wore a wrinkled suit, but a strange outfit made of nature. His hair was tussled, his face fair and young but holding deep and knowing eyes. His expression was masked, but it was apparent he had been crying though he was no longer. In one hand he held a clenched fist. Peter Pan landed on the ground next to the newly upturned dirt and read the words recently etched upon a little headstone:
In Loving Memory Of
Wendy Moira Angela Darling Austin
Mother, Daughter, Grandmother, and Friend
Off on her Next Adventure
He read it, and then a single tear ran down his face. Crouching, he touched his fingers to the lettering as he whispered to himself, barely audibly, "Goodbye Wendy. I will never, ever, forget you."
Opening his fist, he peered down at a small silver object, rusted, and seemingly of no account. But the expression on his face told a story, one more lovely than any he had ever heard. This object was his most valued possession, something he would remember and love through eternity, but he solemnly laid it on top of the stone. Then, hardly taking his eyes off of it, he reached into a pouch at his waist and extracted a tiny pinch of glistening pixie dust. Still silent, with the dust in his palm, he opened his hand and blew the golden flakes onto the stone. It lit up slightly, and he stood, eyes shut, then turned and flew off and away, never to be seen again by myself or any other of the original Lost Boys.
I walked back over to the stone, and on top sat a simple thimble, an old thimble that I had not seen since Neverland. And there, scratched in gold, were the words:
In Loving Memory Of
Wendy Moira Angela Darling Austin
Mother, Daughter, Grandmother, and Friend
Off on her Next Adventure
"For Death will be an awfully big Adventure..."