Standard disclaimers apply. I do not own any rights to Peter Pan or the characters therein. They all belong to J. M. Barrie; I am merely borrowing them for a while.
All boys, except one, grow up. Isn't that the way the story goes? Well, not this time. This time you will get to read the really real version. Peter Pan was not a 10-year-old boy. He was not even a boy really. And his nemesis was not a sea captain. The Lost Boys weren't really boys either. Wendy, John, and Michael WERE children however. Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning. No, that would take longer than you have on earth to tell… Let me start simply with this:
The smell of scorched earth and blood was everywhere. The charred remains of friend and foe alike littered the ground. Everywhere was a reminder of the latest battle. The latest struggle to keep the Unseelie hoards out of their home.
"This cannot go on. Our people grow weaker the longer we fight." A voice whispered from the midst of the carnage. A slender form picked its way to the edge of the war zone. His short brown hair and usually laughing eyes, dulled now with dirt, sweat, and pain.
"Nothing seems to stop them Peter. All we're able to do is slow them."
The brown haired youth ran his hand through his hair distractedly. "I know Nibs. It's almost like they found a way to twist our magic against us. If we could only find a way to change our magic they would no longer be able to kill us as easily."
"Peter!" A younger, blonde-haired boy panted his way up the slope. "Peter you must come quickly. Your mother—" Falling to his knees, he was wracked with a coughing fit. Wiping his mouth with the back of his right hand, blood gleamed in the faint light.
"Slightly, what's happened? What's wrong with Mother?" Peter knelt beside his friend, resting one hand on the others back; he glowed for a brief moment. Looking wearier if possible, he waited for the answer. His heart afraid it already knew.
"You should not waste your magic on me." Slightly knocked Peter's hand away. "Your mother waits beyond the grove at her tree. Peter, one of them got her, hurry!"
Already on his feet, Peter was running before the last word left Slightly's mouth. Fear a bitter taste on the back of his tongue, he hurdled the bodies, rocks and branches heedlessly. Only one thought in his head. She must not die. Not before he could get to her. Not yet!
At last he reached the tree. A tall ash, planted the day his mother was born. It would die when she did, their lives linked as all the trees were to their children. His mother was a small, still shape at its base, yet he knew she still lived. The tree was still green…
"Mother." Taking her hand in his own, eyes filling with unshed tears; he knew her wounds were beyond the greatest of their healers, let alone his own small gifts.
Her green eyes were dull with pain. Blonde hair tangled around her face, she stared up at him and tried to smile. "Peter. Do not cry son, there is not time. You must find a way around the Unseelie magic's before all our people are lost. Look to the world above, their magic is different from ours. Perhaps there—" she gasped, shuddering with pain, her skin turned translucent. "Perhaps…" the breath left her and she was gone.
Peter let the tears fall silently as he composed his mother's body. I will avenge you mother. I swear it!
Standing, still wrapped in silent grief, he walked from the grove, twisting the magic around himself; he opened a Door and stepped through. Closing it before anyone could stop him. There alone in the moonlight of the world above, he sank to his knees once again and let the tears fall freely.
"Boy, why are you crying?" A young girl stood near. Her long brown curls tied back with a blue bow. How Peter had missed seeing her, even clouded by grief, he knew not.
He stood rapidly. Hiding his grief behind a mask, he bowed formally to her. "What is your name child?"
"Wendy Moria Angela Darling. What's yours?"