Disclaimer: The Dresden Files is copyright Jim Butcher. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.

Disclaimer: While most of the Peter Pan properties have passed into public domain, some remain copy-written to their perspective owners. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.


LOST BOYS

A Tale of the Dresdenverse


Chapter 01

As the sun creeps toward the distant horizon, its light journeying to other lands and places I know not, I am left with a profound sorrow at its passing. It has been a long day, but not so long that I would welcome its end. Nor do I wish an end to the life, both immense and brief, that must finally meets its conclusion this night. After everything, I will miss that solitary creature, that shadow that has been cast upon my own life from nearly the beginning.

As I wait, I recall how it all began. But beginnings are fragile things; what else could they be, given their nature? There is never truly a first line of a story, as each opening act is nothing but a continuation of that which came before. And while I might be inclined to some moderate hubris in describing my role in events, I am not so conceited as to believe myself relevant to the tale that began so long before me.

In truth, I alone remain, to witness this final end to the story. Perhaps it should have been another, someone more worthy, someone who was there from the beginning. But everyone else, save for the life coming to a close, has gone on to other places. And so it falls to me.

It seems an unlikely end, given how things unraveled so long ago. I must admit to some mild astonishment when I first realized that the story had indeed not concluded that night. I was not alone in believing the tale finished as the blackened waves of a distance realm closed upon them. We all believed it over and through, except for perhaps the girl.

Ah, the girl. How I pitied her. And yet, so many years later, it is her that has been proven right, and the rest of us so very wrong. Now, at the end of things, I see that in her madness, she might have grasped some truth that eluded us. The truth, revealed by her to the world, now unknowingly condemns that which she loved.

How she would hate me, here at the end.

The thought brings a chagrined smile to my lips; I recognize my hubris even now, believing that she would recall me. Neither she nor the others would know my face as it is now, and if asked this very night, each would blink with unfeigned ignorance at the mention of my name. A name unknown to any of the siblings, as my role in events came so very, very late.

I watch the sun creep across the sky, and wonder at the other parts unknown.

When did it truly begin? Even I do not know that, and I have known a great many of those involved. The girl certainly did not know, not now nor then. Even the two souls entwined at the heart of the story, two lives locked in eternal combat, would not know how things began. One was ignorant, as the tale started long before him; the other, oblivious, as was his nature. To ask him to recall the truth of the beginning would have been too much, for if he were capable of such a thing, then he would not be what he was. And none of it would have transpired.

The Queen might know, but only a fool would ask her for the story. Only a fool would ask her for anything.

No, the beginning is lost to time.

Instead, I will begin at my beginning, which was the beginning of the end.


Like the others, I was nothing more than a leaf on the winds of Destiny and Fate. The latter is at fault for this final part I must play. Surely it was Fate that made sure that my my eyes alight upon that tome of Mister Barrie's. But Fate is not solely to blame. It was a vain moment that saw me take up the man's book, wondering if my name might exist upon the pages of his story.

No. Not his story, in truth, for it was the girl's tale.

I admit I found myself curious, then and now, as to just how much of it was his fabrication, and how much was her misguided recollection of events. The truth lies well beyond either. Although, like beginnings, truths are fragile things. Having seen just how easily the mind can fool itself, or be fooled by others, I know that my memories are as suspect as the girl's. And yet, having no reason to believe myself compromised, I shall write my memoir, and believe it to be the way of things.

It is not meant to be a challenge to the tale given by Mister Barrie. I am content to let his story be the one that passes through the public's eye. Instead, I write what I know so that it might be recorded somewhere, should the truth ever be required. As vain as I may be, it would be a greater sin to assume this final ending is, in fact, an ending at all.

And so I will tell my story, and pass it down to my children, who in turn shall pass it to theirs. Should it ever see the light of day, it shall be met with incredulity and scorn, for it is not as pleasant a tale as that of Mister Barrie's. It is a sad thing, with no victors to celebrate, nor heroes to praise. In my heart, I wish the girl's story to be the truth of things. But I cannot allow myself to be swayed by her words, to forget that which I know.

What I know is simple and true.

Once upon a time, there was a boy. A boy that refused to grow. A boy that was filled with such enviable wonder and dreadful loathing. A boy that was, by the end of things, no boy at all.

And there was a man. A man given to hate. A man that was filled with righteous purpose and callous cruelty. A man that was, by the end of things, no man at all.

The girl's story tells you that much, although it lacks an understanding of either soul. That the man was cruel, I cannot and will not deny. Nor will I dispute that there was a certain attraction to the boy, a winsome longing of the heart that was somehow sated by his youthful charm, if only for a short time. But to declare one good and the other evil, in favor of either, is to do them both a disservice.

The simple truth is that they both, man and boy alike, lived the only way they knew how. Perhaps a better man could judge them for that, for I cannot.

Instead, I will offer what I know, and let history be the judge of the two.

Of the Captain, and the Pan.