The gods of the stratosphere all gathered to watch her perish.
It was the act of a desperate child. Mad and beautiful, she was.
With one sharp, but precise plunge, she drew the knife into her soft chest.
No longer would she be part of the fairy tale. She was done, she was through. No more.
She would allow this no longer. Not an accomplice, not a brave soldier. She would be free.
In death, she would wake up to the real world and meet her real family and maybe know real love.
She was sick and tired of dreaming.
It is horrible, it is heartbreaking when a young girl doesn't wish to live in fantasy anymore.
But when all you know is fantasy, your death grows to be fantastic as well. You see it as a simple gate towards a world of deliverance.
And love – love was part of death, or really, death opened the path of real love to her.
She had stayed here for so long, chasing Peter, but he never stopped, he never looked back at her.
And in truth, she was always behind, always running after him, not before him.
The knife slipped through her body on the ground, as if it had never touched her to begin with. But she felt the pain of being torn apart by magical forces.
She closed her eyes and let the light breathe in.
When she opened her eyes again, she felt her body was not full. Something was covering her legs.
A blanket of some sorts.
And her head was rested against something hard and cold.
Her wrists were tied up with lace. And she felt a necklace dangling between her breasts.
The shadows of a kiss at her lips.
She rose and walked to the open window. Her children had yet to return.
Mrs. Darling realized she had lived in Neverland long enough to understand that her daughter was growing up and Peter Pan was no longer hers. He belonged to a different generation. A young one.
He belonged to Wendy, not to her. She had had her own time. She had outlived it. Now it was her daughter's turn.
Because Tiger Lily was the mother of all.