Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners.

Promise of the Last Kiss

Chapter One

London, England, 1918

The streets of London were dismal, almost bleak in the absent presence of spring. Carriages flooded the cobblestone pathways, making no effort to abandon the almost deified way of convention that had been so heavily ingrained in the ancient walkways and avenues by the passing centuries. Even in the face of the greatest means of modernised transportation, the automobile, could society fully turn away from the grandeur of the much-beloved Edwardian era.

Women, adorned in the formerly favoured Gibsonesque fashion, strolled down the streets with idle confidence, their thoughts holding precariously onto the latest rage in style and paltry gossip that the ton had to offer, as the war itself was completely forgotten by the passing cars and store windows—windows that only obtained the trivial delights of a war-torn society. For it was with this idle, devil-may-care pretence that those torn away from the battlefront could breathe without harbouring guilt for their cowardice.

And thus, they moved along the streets like mechanical clockwork, never once considering that the dregs of humanity could spur such revolt, such wild anarchy that could inevitably lead to their country's joining in the conflict against crazed radicals in a barren, godless wasteland of ice and snow.

It was the talk of men and their idealistic nature to overcome a people lesser than they. The desire to become a soldier and uphold the mantle of truth and justice compelled many to embrace the war with open arms, their dreams of renown only becoming shattered fragments of disillusionment as both man and soul lay prostrate in the bloodstained trenches.

Consequently, the loss and self-despair found within such a trying transition of pain caused even the greatest to fall on bended knee and weep like a mindless child. The mirror of vain confidence has thus fallen in a thousand broken shards against the remnants of what once was, as the overall dejection and crazed wanderings led many down a winding road of personified misery.

Not one had been unaffected by this glorified campaign of his sovereign nation, its effects leading at least one out of every loyal family to the battlegrounds where the fate of each would be decided, weighted, and measured. Most would not return home, as those who survived the battlefront no longer found themselves fortunate to be alive, having been discharged from His Majesty's service because of a war wound that could not be healed by even the greatest of physicians.

Soldiers would return to their former lives, beaten and broken by the atrocities of man. Their eyes were left haunted, soulless, the hollow gazes of each staring out into the infinite. As most were overwhelmed by the memory of things best left forgotten—the cries of the dead forever lingering in the depths of an unspeakable pain that splintered, shattering the mind's eye with the blinding agony of endless guilt. For such was the way of death and war.

And nor had any family been left unscathed by the war's cruel wrath, as most lost whatever sense of justifying the country's noble cause had in its fight against the unmarked tyranny of those who chose to defy order. Decency and good conduct were marked casualties of the growing animosity from such vast diversity in both faith and government. And much like a god intoxicated with profane anger, it bestowed misery and pain upon its creations, subjecting them to the harsh reality of the world as death fell upon them by a grave stab of cold finality.

And it was such that the Darling family, whose impeccable belief it was to uphold domestic unity, was rendered in two when a distillation of that ever-distant conflict came in the form of one of its blessed sons, the precious embodiment of youth returning in pieces. And not a soul of that wondrous family could comprehend, or even understand how such innocence could be crushed by the aching drums of discord, that seemed to echo its listless war chant across the hollows of the maddening torture beyond its Hadean borders.

Wendy Darling, the oldest, and perhaps, wisest of the Darling children thought upon this, her dark eyes distantly searching for the ever-elusive horizon beyond the nursery window. She remained silent in her menial pursuit, the darkness of the winter sun falling against her as the pale, crimson-red beams failed to warm her with their fragile, fading touch.

She gently sighed, and her head inclined against the delicate glass panes of her childhood. She shuddered against them, instantly feeling the coldness of the approaching twilight ebb its bitter tidings against the degraded shores of her discontent, as the acrimonious pull of it enveloped her in a cloak of mordant apathy.

A tacit scowl besieged her delicate countenance, and she fought against such dire hopelessness. Though her innate reluctance of it was of little consequence, as its diaphanous folds held her, tightening around her delicate figure like a second skin, its cold, comforting gesture leaving only a trace of apathetic sympathy for the girl who had become a woman in the grave turn of a day.

The faint frown upon her lovely features wavered within the window's reflection, its translucent image reminding her of all she had lost…but also gained. For with the agony of losing the naïve innocence she had once come to cherish, arrived the inevitable understanding of becoming a lady. She had grown up, and thus cast aside childish things.

And yet, her unwilling pursuit of remaining a child did not wane. In truth, she had made the transition between child and adult not of her own will. Society's harsh strictures, her peers, even her parents—all of which would fragrantly regard her with strained concern of her refusal to take on the mantle of responsibility, which her brothers had all willingly done—left her awestruck by the grim certainty of becoming something she was not…

…A lady.

She silently scoffed at the word, inwardly loathing the accursed title. The petty illusion of holding the false image of perfection, something of which most of her contemporaries had accomplished with the dignified grace that had been ingrained within them since birth, only furthered the innate rebellion inside of her. As the very notion of becoming an adult offended her remaining dignity.

Yet in spite of her resistance against such practised madness, she knew that nothing could be done, as her plight would endure, lasting beyond this night and into the harrowing world of tomorrow, as she, Wendy Moira Angela Darling, would no longer hold that maidenly title of virtue. She would be a married woman by tomorrow's end, having a husband to share to a lifetime with, and not the childish solidarity she secretly yearned for.

With this, she closed her eyes in silent defeat, surrendering the last vestige of childhood to an uncaring world where all grew up…except one…

Peter.

Oh, how her heart ached at the name, its brittle, wounded shape collapsing within her chest. She felt herself fall on unsteady knees, unable to stand as the vital muscle—that was the centre of all life—convulsed, bleeding its sorrows out in dejected tones of endless misery. The divine arrow which struck it upon that ill-fated night had penetrated its virginal innocence, marking it with only the inept splendour of something that it could never fully obtain; the sentiment it echoed forever remaining unrequited by the one destined to guard it.

Her head fell in utter despair, and her eyes closed in shame. What a fool she had been to believe that he would keep his promise. The careless youth who cared solely for the fleeting interests of things could scarcely hold his brief attention, fostered this dire realisation of the truth. And although she fervently believed that he would remember to come the next spring and did not, she held onto the tattered thread of faith that he would recall the promise he made to her.

But as he allowed a year to fall in between his word, and then another, she had reluctantly begun to accept that he was too engaged to be concerned with a girl of whom he had intrigued during their short interval in the Neverland. His purpose in fighting pirates and having adventures, which other children could only imagine, were too important to set aside for an idle bout of spring cleaning.

With this unwanted truth, she faintly acknowledged that another year would pass without his company, as another year would fade the memory of his impish smile and childlike visage. She shook her head in a careless manner, knowing that he would not come, now or ever.

He had simply forgotten her.

Nevertheless, she could not cast his memory aside so easily. For she thought of him, often. But as the idle recollections of a perpetual innocence lingered within the hollows of her still-childlike mind, she could not fathom the shadows that enshrouded them as the madness within her dreams stirred her to such brilliantly damning wonder that she herself, with the reasoning of a soul barely twenty, could never understand. The furtive pursuit of a figure cloaked in the deepest of all mysteries would not allow her to.

For it was this self-inflicted fate that she felt compelled to marry, for marriage would be safer, more practical in the choice given over to the silly, childish imaginings found within her youth. Peter Pan, the boy who would outlast even Time itself, would have everything as the years of experience would not poison him as it did for all others. He would remain in a enduring state of naïveté as all else faded and died—as she, too, would in time—and would thus only be a fading memory onto a child whose ingenious nature came upon the final, fatal stroke of her impending death.

Her dark eyes opened then, and she accepted her approaching doom as the world came crashing down around her. The point of returning from such sweet oblivion beyond all rational thought the moment she willingly succumbed to the entrancing darkness that always greeted her at the crossroads of consciousness. She smiled contentedly, hearing its enigmatic call, as it pulled her inexorably against it.

She thus moved within its anomalous embrace, sighing in dark pleasure as it held her. Its thin, wispy, nebulous fingers caressed her, placating her weary soul as it had countless times before. As it was within this dark, arresting figure that she felt both fear and adoration, for whatever entity came to her during these despairing times was not wholly uninvited, but sincerely welcomed.

The timid smile upon her pale lips curved contentedly when she thought of her nameless comforter. She idly recalled how she felt the cloaked apparition dwell within her thoughts at times, always there, watching her, guiding her, its guarded presence hiding behind the dusky folds of obscurity. The face, which she had always sought, yet never found, remained hidden behind the toiling imaginings within her mind, taunting her with a secret that had yet to be discovered.

On occasion, she even spoke to it, confessing her worries and fears of fleeting girlhood trifles that would most assuredly dishearten her parents' deep-set convictions in her maturity. But the darkness never rebuked her, as it remained undeterred by her childish antics. And as always, it consoled her with its comforting silence, embracing her with the assured promise of prevailing against her present dilemma.

It was like a dark lover to her. One that she could confide in, trust in. One that she could almost…love. But her thoughts stilled as the dire notion of Peter being considered as such rendered her inner delight cold. No, she quietly argued, his light could never eclipse the comforting presence that had somehow usurped his place in her hour of need. Peter Pan had forgotten her, and she, in turn, would have to do the same. It was not fair to her family, her betrothed, or to herself. But most importantly of all, it was not fair to the silent observer whom she felt watch her even now.

"Forgive me," she silently whispered to it, a sombre frown replacing her smile.

And just as she uttered these penitent words, she felt the vague sensation of pain within her leg subside. The blinding, twisting agony left without further thought when the ever-comforting darkness soothed the instilled wound that would never fully heal. Her eyes opened and she considered her injured extremity, grimacing at the memory of the pale distorted flesh that would forever mark her as one to be pitied.

She was a victim, a delicate invalid in the eyes of all. And where she could see the remote compassion within those who learned of her unfortunate accident, she could also sense the veiled revulsion of their being within a cripple's presence. Even her parents displayed their saddened dismay of her misfortune, yet remained vacant of any disgust they may have had for her present state. No, only her family could understand the unending agony she went through each day, as her brother's own suffering was a hundredfold.

A stifled sigh escaped her, her thoughts remaining solely upon her younger sibling. It was a shame that he could not find any solace as she had. For where she had the reassuring presence of another, albeit in thought only, she at least had someone—something—that could give her the confidence she needed to face a cold, unforgiving world where people believed themselves to be better than others because of such limitations. She could endure the innate aversion that which was most secretly harboured.

And she would thus live with the knowledge of her situation, knowing that although she was reduced to depending heavily upon the aid of a cane, she could at least walk. And for that, she was grateful. Her only regret, however, was the grave fact that she would be required to use it after the marriage ceremony, as she was unable to walk such a long distance, even as far as the church's main walkway, without it. Her father was the only one to save her from further disgrace, as he would lead her down the aisle, in his paternal duty to give his precious daughter away.

Wendy then thought upon her imminent marriage to one of London's most prestigious sons, the grandson of Sir Edward Quiller-Couch, whom she simply called Henry, would be her husband in less than a day. It was the marriage most talked about in the passing weeks, as a son of the noble realm took a commoner to wife. Her father…had been beyond ecstatic, as her mother demurely nodded her head in assent, almost silently questioning the legitimacy of the marriage, but in the end saying nothing in objection.

Even so, the marriage would take place, having been postponed after the past year's line of tragedies. She would then become Wendy Moira Angela Darling-Quiller-Couch, a newly-refined name, which heralded the predominance of personified grandeur. Moreover, she would be the first in her family to carry over the Darling name into fortune, the noble title christened with it enforcing the undying ambition of previous generations had now, at last, come full circle as she would inevitably accept such an auspicious offer.

But it was an offer filled with much uncertainty.

For although she cared for Henry, she could not fully bring herself to actually love him, as an aspiring bride should. In truth, she felt as if she were betraying someone else with the paltry affections she did exchange. She instantly frowned, vaguely aware of the many occasions of idle indifference she had, when in his presence. Moreover, they had never actually shared the sweetness of a chaste kiss. And for that, she blamed herself, since she could never allow him the opportunity.

There would be many kisses, she assured herself—the first upon their wedding day, when she surrendered her maidenly title and became a true bride. She would be a woman at last. And that thought, though terribly wonderful in all of its promising minutiae, almost made her anxious of the approaching hours. She would lose her remaining innocence, which had strangely remained intact by the War and fleeting years. Yet she would lose it the moment she said, "I do."

And yet, it was inescapable, she reminded herself. For nothing short of God could avert her fate. And her head fell once more in dark dread.

"Peter," she whispered to herself, hoping, praying as her pleading eyes turned toward the window. "Why have you not come for me? Have you truly forgotten your Wendy?"

Never…

Her head rose at the sound of the voice. But it was not Peter's. No, no other voice could comfort her so. She cast aside her present melancholy, smiling as it encircled once more, soothing her with placating thoughts, which she received without care, all reserve and caution thrown to the wind for this unknown origin. She basked in its obscured radiance, yet realising, in that moment—as she had many times before—that she should question the entity's purpose in coming. But yet, could never dare bring herself to, for fear of losing it completely.

And in spite of these self-reservations, she gave in to it once more, feeling it murmur the confidence it had in her, its silent, unspoken wish for her to forget her despondency mirrored the tacit need it had for her to submit completely to its desire. And she did, without question, as Peter was soon forgotten, her interest lying solely upon the presence within her mind. Her smile widened, knowing she had pleased it immensely.

Thou shall prevail, mon bel ange, it whispered softly, I promise.

Wendy nodded, revelling in its comforting accented vow, which reflected a hint of French. "I know," she quietly returned. "But I wish…" She did not finish, as the traitorous thought was abruptly disregarded. She could never ask her beloved comforter to come for her, as she had of Peter. It would surely abandon her, should she ever…

Cast aside thy fear, the voice continued, undeterred by her silence. I am here. Always.

"And I thank you," Wendy said instinctively. "I could never—" She abruptly paused, her dark brows pursed together in deep consternation, as she remembered how the voice came to her more frequently after her accident. She thought of this for a brief instant, and then moved to speak: "I would truly be lost and alone without you," she quietly amended, blushing precariously at her discomfiture.

The voice remained silent, if only for a fleeting moment. But in the next instance, spoke most severely: Thou shalt never be alone. I will not allow it.

She listened intently, knowing that it spoke the truth, and she yielded to its firm avowal. "You are right," she conceded, much to her embarrassment. "And I shall try to remember that you will never, ever leave me." Her teeth clasped her lower lip in thought. "You, at least, keep your promises…"

A moment, filled with inept anticipation, passed between them. Wendy gently sighed, feeling the tenuous figure return to the dark depths of consciousness, waiting only to be called when needed. She inwardly smiled, silently whispering her appreciation.

And with this minor show of gratitude, she rose, albeit unsteadily, and grasped the cane that lay idly against the window's ancient casing. The hour had grown late, she realised with mild irritation. Her time with John before he retired for the evening would be expired if she did not hurry—the music, which soothed him, not played for the first time since his return. She could not allow that. No, not when it would unfortunately be her last session with him.

Thus persuaded, she left the nursery, her irregular gait propelling her toward the room farthest down the hall. She moved, unevenly, through the narrow corridor, which was now engulfed in the shadows of twilight. Her passing glance at the ominous twisted shapes almost made her shudder, but nevertheless ignored the hidden fear they inspired, setting aside her childish phobia, and replacing it with the solemn face of her brother.

Dear, sweet, innocent John whose dark eyes could have lit the world with their wondrous curiosity. She faintly smiled, allowing a single, sorrowful tear to fall before she opened the massive ebony door before her. He must not see her cry so. It would dampen his spirits should he see his sister cry for his sake.

How like a girl, she idly thought, and then turned the door's brass knob, allowing the broken image of her dear brother plague her mind and heart once more.

…

The room was immersed in darkness as Wendy stood in the door's silent threshold. The myriad of candles and lights which illuminated it had burned out long ago, leaving only a single candle on the bed's nightstand to flicker its fading light against the night's trying adversity. She grimaced at the poor illumination, remembering her own timidity with the shady element. The memory of her brother's unease, which he had profusely expressed in his war-stained letters, also confirmed his own fear of it.

She moved without thought to the stand, taking the solitary light with her. Her deft movements in the darkness went unheeded by the slumped figure in the chair, however, as she bathed the room with light once more.

Wendy considered her work; and with remote satisfaction, nodded as she turned towards her brother.

"John," she said with slight concern, "it is time for our lesson. I apologise that I did not come sooner, but I was unfortunately…detained."

The former soldier said nothing to his sister's open apology, only remained seated, lost in his thoughts. Wendy looked at him thoughtfully, her own voice rendered mute. She stared, helplessly, at the shattered body before her. The hollow look within his once-expressive eyes unnerved her, as it had when she first saw his broken and battered form return under lowered flag.

She had shrieked at the sight of the lifeless figure that entered the Darling home. John, the prodigal son, whose tragic arrival had forever shattered the remaining joy the dwelling kept preserved within its familial walls. Her parents were at a loss, as were her brothers—both related and adopted—when the hailed soldier returned to them, a broken man.

It had been a grave homecoming, she sadly reflected.

Even so, she smiled at him, trying to at least give a sense of normalcy to their strained relationship. She made her way to the piano, her cane duly echoing against the floorboards before she placed it against the worn instrument. And with fluid-like grace she sat, her hesitant gaze resting once more upon her brother. "Shall I play Mozart for you?" she asked, but quickly disregarded the suggestion, finding the Austrian's work too lively for his interest—as well as hers.

"Perhaps not," she muttered, flipping through the vast selection of definitive works. Chopin, Liszt, Gounod—all of which were prolific composers—were ill-compared to the work that lay before her now. Her dark eyes stared upon the familiar notes that compelled her to gain a love for music. Beethoven. It was the perfect choice for setting both her and her brother's souls at ease.

Her hands fell against the yellowed ivory keys, her fingers moving nimbly in the candlelight. She sighed under the dynamic flow of music, feeling only infinite peace flood her weary soul by the delicate strains of the composer's seventh symphony. Her choice in playing the sombre, yet moving, piece in A Major gave her the strength to continue as her brother sat in silence.

The music droned on for the next hour before reaching its dreaded conclusion. And yet, Wendy ended the piece with a flourish that even the greatest pianist would envy. Her time and study had evoked her father's desire for her to excel from that of being a mere teller of children's stories. With his insistence, her natural ability to play augmented to that of an almost skilled performer, as the music itself compelled her to continue, even after her accident.

She quietly frowned as other favoured pursuits were wisely set aside. Her dancing lessons, which her mother urged her to take, had been sadly postponed—permanently. She could no longer move to the waltz, nor practice the delicate art of ballet; her infirmity would not allow it. And as such, she was forced to sit at soirees and dances amongst her father's peers, the others of her caste joyfully partaking in an idle bout of dancing while she, the infirm, had to sit beside the dowager hens whose elderly peculiarities frequently discouraged her.

John had been most fortunate not to have endured such endless torture, as he had been secretly schooled away at Eton, while her other brothers did not have to attend such droll parties that would, perhaps, stunt their growth. Wendy shook her head in idle bemusement. The very idea of her oldest brother willingly partaking in a dance—any dance, for that matter—was unheard of. Truth be told, it was completely absurd. For no lady could ever wish to have a pair of bruised and broken feet by evening's end.

At this, Wendy truly smiled, briefly forgetting her present sadness. But it was to be short-lived when she noticed the ever so distant look that always clouded his pale features. Her heart sank, and her mirth dissipated. John had not even heard her play, as he had not the previous nights since his return. His refusal to speak, even when she pleaded for him to, would not awaken the inert soul that lay in a permanent, catatonic state of suspension.

The physician's grim confirmation that John would never speak, or have any direct contact with anyone again, had affirmed the Darling family's darkest fear. Even as the months passed in silent monotony, far from the horrid reminder of war, did the oldest Darling son remain silent. His catatonia, along with the vivid memories that seemed to relentlessly plague him, only furthered his imprisonment. As it was an imprisonment from which he could not escape, as he would be forever trapped within his own mind.

Wendy stared at him, a part of herself knowing that she would never again see the boy she had both laughed with and cried upon in her youth. She wondered where her precious brother had gone, leaving her to suffer in her own misery. None of her other brothers could ever understand her as John had. Being two years his senior had only furthered their need to remain close as both approached adulthood, the times of playing pirates and princesses long since faded, but never truly forgotten.

She then recalled the bittersweet memories of their short-lived youth. John's avid expression had always been locked with hers, his attention rapt as she regaled him and the others with tales, not of the dark and loathsome James Hook, but of the Black Prince, whose courteous villainy surpassed that of the maimed pirate captain. The man was a figure of their darkest imaginations, which had ironically spurred, in truth, from the pages of history.

The Black Prince—for that was what all, even the English royalty, had called him since no legitimate name could be found—was always at the centre of her stories, having replaced the tragic Hook in tales far darker, more compelling than those found in her naïve childhood adventures. Her heart would beat madly in grave trepidation, the blood within her veins stirring when she perceived the dark lord's unknown visage. For no portrait or sketch had ever been made of him, as he refused for such to exist. And so she was forced to envision his ever-elusive guise, always left to consider every facet and flaw his face may have had.

Her vision of his appearance, however, remained secretly tucked away in the back of her mind, as a more falsified and safer likeness was produced for her captive audience. The innate belief to not compare him with a man whose eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots prevented the unavoidable grief her brothers would have. The thought of Captain James Hook, even the passing mention of him, would have evoked too many painful memories for all, even if she slightly linked him to the noble pirate that her brothers seemed to have admired. But strangely, it was his image that had haunted her for many years in the idle throes of sleep.

But her interest in the infamous plunderer had ceased the moment of her introduction in London's prodigious society. She had aged gracefully during those trying times, her ignoble girlhood forgotten, as the promised beauty of her mother graced her before her third engagement. The myriad of dances, balls, and soirees she attended only furthered the growing intrigue of those who admired her. The sons of society came in interest, always seeking to fill her dance card for at least one dance, if not three.

And that was where she had met Henry, for the first time. Her thoughts moved wistfully to the boyishly handsome man who had come to claim her for a waltz, as he had impulsively filled her card for the rest of the evening. His mild hesitance in dancing had been overshadowed by the desire in making his fascination of her known. And he had, marvellously so. It was why she had accepted his proposal, a part of her secretly knowing that she would never again have another chance in making a decent match, even if it was not based solely upon love.

For Henry was, to her belief, all she could have expected in a prospective husband. And although theirs was not a love match, the care and understanding he had remained a truthful, irrefutable certainty. And it would be enough, as it carried them through the warring years with the promise of a semi-complacent life, and perhaps the coming of…children.

Sadly, they had barely graced the surface of that inevitable subject before her accident, as the tragic affair had undeniably torn that expectation asunder when the news of her handicap reached him. And he had not mentioned the matter of children to her since.

It was of little consequence, however. Sooner or later, the issue would be brought up again, and then they would decide on it. Until then she would concern herself with marriage and let the last remnants of her childhood go as she departed from the simple confines of the nursery—where her life had truly begun—as she said a fond and final farewell to it, closing its doors behind her forever.

She slightly frowned in thought. It would be something that all of the Darling children would have to do. John had already done so. And as the unending passage of time continued beyond the borders of infinity, so would the others, including Michael, who was still very much a boy at heart. The fervent belief of a world beyond theirs had faded away, as all had already forgotten about the Neverland and their father, Peter. To them, it was simply a myth, a legend contrived by the imaginative genius of their beloved sister.

But perhaps they were grown up after all, Wendy reminded herself. All of them, including her, had forgotten how to fly. And so, perhaps she was the only one left to make the passage through its child's threshold. And she would. By tomorrow's end, she would close the door on that belated innocence forever…

Thus decided, Wendy removed herself from the piano, cane forgotten as she crossed over to the side of her brother and placed a chaste kiss upon his smooth forehead. She looked at him with the marked consideration of pain, pain in which he could never know. And much to her inner dismay, his lack of acknowledging her confirmed the horrid truth: He did not see her, or realise that she was even there. The agony that had lain dormant within her swelled, the mark of woe erupting in broken strands of desolation, which was almost too much to bear.

She fell upon her knees then, her hands moving tremulously over the deep folds of the blanket that covered him. Her head fell upon his lap, as bitter tears of regret brimmed within her dark eyes.

"Oh, John," she whispered brokenly, forbidding her tears to fall.

John, who remained unmoved by his sister's dramatic show of sorrow, however, sat, ignorant to all else, including her tears. But Wendy took no notice of this, as she confessed everything—all hint of worry and concern of her impending marriage—to him.

"How can I face tomorrow, when I fear tonight?" she questioned, her eyes remaining upon the blanket's ivory folds. "I know I should not, but I cannot help what I feel. I cannot set aside this present worry that grows and aches within me, as I cannot prevent what happens tomorrow. And even then, after everything is all said and done and I am married, will I still have this aching dread." She looked at him sorrowfully, revealing the broken, uncertain Wendy at last. "And yet, I must, for no one can prevent it from happening. Everything has been set into motion, and cannot be swayed, no matter how much I wish it otherwise…"

Her hands grasped the edge of his unfeeling knees, almost forcing him to understand. "I know it is unkind of me to think this, John," she went on, "but I still feel that there is at least one more adventure out there, beyond the world of growing up. And much to my regret, I yearn for it so." Her eyes closed, and the tears finally fell. "I still believe. Oh, God, I still believe." And her soul mourned at the profound loss within her words.

"But I must marry," she confessed, all pain within her voice subsiding into cold acceptance. "And I shall. And I will be happy with Henry, for he is a good man—better than what I deserve." She gently sighed, a ghost of a smile teasing the corner of her lips. "I wish you could be there, John. I wish I could see you there—smiling, at me—while Father gives me away, and Mother has tears in her eyes."

A moment passed in grave silence, leaving brother and sister to ponder this unassailable truth. The awkward feeling of dread crashed madly against the intangible stillness, as if willing the room's mute occupants to adhere to its ill-foreboding tidings that would come by the first rays of dawn. But both ignored its apathetic warning, not caring if Hell shattered the fragile bindings that held the world in place. As it would no longer matter, the world itself already ablaze by the icy fires of despair.

And with this mordant truth, Wendy, despite the slight hint of dejection within her voice, rose upon her knees and placed a warm, comforting hand against her brother's cold cheek. She smiled at him, taking in his childlike features, and secretly revelled in the knowledge that he had not lost all of his innocence. Her heart eased at the sight, and she whispered, "But I will pretend that you are there, and that you will congratulate us on such a beautiful wedding."

John said nothing in return, but she did not mind. Their little pretend was enough to quell the harsh reality of their world. And so she held him, the last of her strength waning. This would be their final embrace as brother and sister, as she would leave him in the dark cold of his thoughts, the piano forgotten, the music abandoned.

But it had to be. For all else could not remain the same, not even the window in the nursery that, at one time, led to countless joys beyond all imagination, would hold any remnant of the life it once held within its translucent panes; the cast image of children growing up and forgetting their eternal youth, before they finally faded away completely from its glassine reflection.

It was a cold reality, she faintly mused, but one she had sadly come to accept. And as she turned to her dearest of brothers—though she loved them all equally and without measure—she saw her own agony reflected within John's eyes. For it was this bond forged through adversity that lay unspoken under turbulent tides of pain that they shared. And it was this bond that linked them, she realised, this fraternal link that no one else could ever know.

Michael and the others only knew a fraction of what the elder Darling children felt. Their empathy was borne of the weathering fear of change, not of the anguish envisioned upon first glance. In truth, they could not even fathom what their war-torn brother and broken sister endured. As the ache that tormented the eldest Darling son would never cease—not fully. And not even generous amounts of laudanum could quell the ever restless torrent that churned from within. The morphine injections had damaged whatever nerve endings left alive in the shattered soldier.

It pained her to consider such harsh truths, especially those of her brother. And she regretted that her abandonment would cause further harm to his already deteriorating mind; for even though the physician confirmed that John was past all awareness, she inwardly believed that some small part of him acknowledged her. The hollow expression within his eyes always lightened when she came to him and played their music.

And then a thought came, offering her a small reprieve from her present guilt.

"John," she whispered quietly, looking at him beseechingly. "John, when I leave, I shall have Mother play for you. I realise that it will not be the same, but it is all I can offer until I can come home for visits and play for you." Her hands closed around his, and a smile wavered upon her lips. "I wish that things could be different. And that I could stay here instead…" she murmured, her forlorn expression betraying her false happiness.

Wendy heavily sighed, her head placed disjointedly against the chair's hard, wooden edge. She did not even hear the door quietly open, or even the question marked as her name echoed into the room's silent space.

"Wendy? Are you in here?" the nameless voice called again, a pale face materialising.

"Yes, Michael. I am with John," Wendy acknowledged quietly, her eyes falling upon the awkward adolescent who remained poised at the entranceway.

Michael breathed a sigh of relief as he entered, closing the door behind him. He moved quietly, his footsteps graceful, silent as they contrasted against the wild, untamed light shocks of golden-auburn that idly fell against his forehead. Years of study had aged his naïve countenance, moulding it into a perfect likeness of his father, albeit younger and fairer. Even his eyes, which were an azure mixture of delight and curiosity, had matured under the schoolmaster's strict rod.

But despite such drastic change imparted upon him, he did not lose his intrigue, nor his kindness and understanding of his family. And with this considerate demeanour, he moved to his sibling's side, his eyes falling solely upon his sister, widening in fright.

"Good heavens, Wendy! Did you fall?" he asked, concerned. "Where is your cane?"

"Michael, 'tis quite all right," The eldest Darling child gently assured, trying to placate the youngest, but failing in her attempt.

"But your cane!" he reminded her. "You know what the doctor said about it: you cannot walk without it. Do you wish to cause yourself further harm?" He shook his mass of unruly hair, truly upset by her thoughtlessness. "I could not bear it if you hurt yourself again."

The brief irritation that overcame her from her brother's unnecessary antics dissipated into a cloud of understanding. Her youngest brother was truly the worrier of their lot, his constant frown permanently furrowed into the contours of his delicate face.

"Michael," she finally said after a moment's silence, "I am all right. I did not fall, I assure you." Her hand rose to smooth away his tangible worry. "And the cane is next to the piano."

"Still…" he faltered, not wanting to yield to her gentle assertions. He could not have her hurt again, not after last year. He turned to her, sorrowfully. "I am sorry, Wendy. I…I did not realise that. It's just that you were on the floor, and I panicked."

Wendy nodded. "Quite understandable. I would have frightened Mother and Father, as well, had they come upon me and not you." She smiled at him, her eyes revealing a tinge of mirth. "Besides, I would hate to upset them further since the wedding is tomorrow."

"Indeed," Michael agreed; a knowing grin upon his face. "I am sure that you are quite the opposite, seeing as you are regaling your happiness to John." He glanced at the seated man before him and frowned. "Has he said anything?" he asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

"Not a word." Wendy shook her head. "I cannot understand it. I just wish…" A tear threatened to fall from her eye, but she forced forbade it to fall, forcing it to remain at the brim of her eternal sorrow.

Michael stepped forward and removed the traitorous tear from his sister's eye. "There, there, now," he gently soothed. "I know. And John knows, too. He would not want you to cry—for his sake, especially. And besides, we cannot you have you crying before your wedding. There will be enough of that with Mother and all. No doubt she is crying about it already."

Wendy looked at her younger brother, a coverlet of appreciation encompassing her dark eyes as he handed her the discarded cane. "Thank you, Michael. I would not know what to do without your cynic's humour."

"Call it a gift, dear sister," he returned affably, enjoying one of her rare smiles. But then his eyes widened, as if recalling something important, something of which he did not wish to disclose. "Oh, and I almost forgot." He blanched heavily under Wendy's questioning gaze. "Your fiancé is here. I was to come and tell you that he is waiting in the foyer."

"Michael!" Wendy said in surprise, her joy falling away to visible shock. "Why did you not tell me sooner?"

The youngest Darling had the grace to blush. "Forgive me. A momentary aberration, one that shan't happen again," he delicately entreated, trying to dodge the genial swing of his sister's cane. "I relent, dear Wendy, please! I don't need a concussion before the wedding. Or…perhaps I do," he added, leaving her side in haste as he bounded down the hall in fear of her infamous wrath.

The almost-bride gave an unladylike groan at Michael's fading words, as an unspoken promise to avenge her honour came to mind. She turned to her silent brother, giving him a meaningful glance. "Do you see what kind of spiteful demon he has become, John?" A heavy sigh escaped her, and her weary head fell forward.

"But I would not have him any other way, I suppose—even if he does not approve of Henry as much as Father does." Her dark gaze fell to the floor in minute irritation. "And he sadly agrees with the rest of our brothers' shared opinion," she confessed, albeit reluctantly, not wishing to recall the argument her engagement had caused amongst her adopted siblings. The dire effects it imparted were indeed something not to be remembered.

"John, I must go, for now," she muttered, her hand tightening around his. "I will see you tomorrow, before the wedding." With this, she stood and placed a loving, almost heartfelt, sisterly kiss upon his cheek, whispering, "I promise."

But John said nothing in turn, as he stared blankly at the retreating figure of his loving sister, the loving sister he did not see.

…

The belated hour of seven chimed in the distant hall as Wendy found herself descending down the wooden stair, with grim cane in hand. Her careful footfalls against the aged steps marked the hidden unease within her movements, her face, however, not betraying the innate strength she had summoned on meeting her future husband.

In truth, she was relieved to see him. Much time had passed since their last interlude, which had been scarcely two months since the obligations to his father required them to practise their rehearsal weeks in advance. And now they would have to remember their vows made in the solemn, ancient church only months before. Wendy suppressed a blush from the thought. It would indeed be a pity if she forgot her promise to him in a fit of nerves, an attack of the swoons thus following in their grave wake.

She quietly laughed, her present concern forgotten as she envisioned her wedding day. It would be perfect. As no dark cloud, nor aberrant storm, could hinder such an anticipated event. Everyone, except for the king himself, would attend. And with this mild consideration, she reminded herself that it was all she had hoped for on such an especial day. But sadly, to her private dismay, she harboured an innate dread of its coming, though she knew she would not regret her decision. Henry was a good man, she told herself once more. He would take care of her and comfort her, unlike his inability to after her accident.

But of course he was in another country when the news reached him, she reminded herself, but failed in her attempt to believe her own assertions. The ill-fated news of her injury, which was unfortunately rendered permanent, had not spurred his return home. And sadly, it had been weeks until his arrival to see her, his apologies abrupt and stifled under a shattered veil of disbelief. He had visited her, for no more than an hour, before leaving her to the empty solitude of her room, with only a voice in her head as company.

Though in turn, Wendy subtly yielded her barrage of condemning thoughts. Business, of course, had hindered his stay longer with her. As it had for the past two months…

"But he is here now," she whispered to herself, the words, though forced, comforting her in their smallest fraction. And thus, gave her the strength to enter the foyer and find the man she would soon come to call husband…

"Wendy!" her mother's bell-like voice exclaimed, her light tone a merry trill.

"Mother," Wendy gently acknowledged. "Where—"

"In the garden," Mrs. Darling kindly interjected, her beautiful face, however, falling into shadowed concern. "And I believe that it is considered to be bad luck for the groom to see his bride on the night before their wedding." Her face lightened after uttering these noble truths, her merriment returning in partial measure. "But I think that some concessions can be made." She gave her daughter a meaningful glance. "Go on, my dear. He is waiting."

And thus, with the gentle insistence of her mother, Wendy stood outside the French doors that led to the garden, its small space enfolded by four stalwart walls of unyielding brick. She felt herself become almost breathless under their suffocating enclosure, the slight sensation of vertigo coming forth in dark waves of apprehension.

Her inner disquiet matched her desire to see him, the many months of separation compelling her to remember her fondness of him—for she truly cared for him—after their unwanted parting. The torrent of mixed emotions subsided, as the thought of his consideration to see her on the night before their wedding made her smile. She moved forward then, her uncertainty forgotten, the cane clicking in stride with her gentle footsteps.

The vague, yet discernible, figure rendered her movements, her eyes falling upon the silent outline of her fiancé. Like a statue, he remained motionless, static in the form of the truest of gentleman. His handsome features seemed to glow against the pale lamplight cast from the closed window behind him. Her heart almost quavered at the sight—almost.

"Henry?" she called to the unmoving stillness before her.

A moment passed before he turned to her, his perfect features mirroring his elevated status. Wendy almost drew away from such noted perfection, but steeled against such cowardice. This was her Henry, not a haughty lord or prince whom she would be inclined to acknowledge by forced obeisance.

"Henry," she said again, her blush obscured by the surrounding darkness.

"Gwendolyn," he returned with like civility, his hand extending for hers. He smiled as she accepted it. "I have missed you," he whispered against her cheek.

Have you? she wanted to ask, but set aside such incredulity. He could not even gather the courage to call her by the name her parents lovingly gave her, but preferred a more suitable rendering of it. As he had once explained that it would not suit well in polite society, for it sounded too Welsh, and therefore vulgar in the eyes of his colleagues. But she discounted the stinging insult, munificently excusing his cagey strictures of propriety, and simply relished in the fact that he had come at last.

"I have missed you, as well." Her dark eyes brightened in the scattered starlight. "I thought…I believed that I would see you tomorrow, and not be—"

"I could not stay away from you a moment longer," he quietly interrupted, his earnest gaze softening. "Two months, with only your letters as my sole correspondence with you, was enough to drive me mad. I daresay that Bedlam would indeed have a new occupant, had I been forced away from your side any longer." He took her hands in his, the height of his tone quavering as he uttered, "Gwendolyn, I never intended to be away for so long. And I know that you must believe that I wanted to stay away, but it is not that at all…"

His voice pleaded for her to believe him, though his eyes, those wondrous eyes whose sapphire depths held only remorse for his actions, revealed another story entirely. In his eyes, she saw the truth, and it cut her deeply.

"Henry, I…" she started, almost unable to continue, the painful truth setting in at last.

He deeply sighed, knowing that she would not continue. "Please, try to understand that my grandfather and father's influence forced me to leave," he calmly pressed. "I would never have left you, Wendy; you know this."

She looked away from him, her eyes downcast. "I know," she whispered dejectedly, her lovely face full of sorrow. "And I do not fault you for it. You had to. And I understand that. All I can ask is that you forgive my discourtesy toward you and your family."

"Gwendolyn." His hands clasped tightly around hers, subtly coercing her to listen. She looked up at him then, and he smiled. "My dear, there is nothing to forgive. I know that you were left alone, with very little contact from me. But I must confess that I, too, have felt the same agonising pain of separation. My every thought was of you and you alone."

How I wish I could believe that, she mutely returned, but instead smiled. "I know. And besides, after tomorrow, there will be no reason why I cannot join you on your business trips." She looked down; hiding her bashful expression, as she, by Fortune's magnanimous intervention, missed the slight flinch he gave by her suggestion. "I would very much like to see Paris." She looked at him, her eyes bright with hope. "Perhaps, when your father's ventures take you there again, then I can come also."

Henry stared at her, nonplussed. "Of…Of course, my dear!" he blanched, faltering over his words. "I…would be delighted to take to you with me. After all, I recall the many times you spoke of visiting the Louvre and le Château de Versailles. It would be a transgression not to take you when I had planned on doing so for our next year's anniversary."

Wendy laughed at his error. "And now, I fear that you have spoiled the surprise!" she gently chided, but forgave him all the same.

"Perhaps I did." He smirked, his golden head bowing in mock remorse. "Nevertheless, you can look forward to it."

She slightly frowned at his implication, her dark brows pursing together in thought. "It is a pity that I barely know a word of French. I suppose it will be most difficult to get about without knowing at least a little."

"You took Latin instead of French in that boorish finishing school of yours," he concluded, his expression thoughtful. "I fear I am at the same quandary as you, my dear, for I took Italian and German. I know not a word of French, and much to my regret, I must admit that I depended heavily upon my father's accompanying administrator to translate." To his chagrin, he chortled at his own confession. "We will hire a translator, if need be. It would be most awkward indeed if the both of us are lost there and know not a word of that vulgar language!"

"Henry, their language is not vulgar," Wendy lightly admonished. "I truly wish that I could have learned it instead of Latin."

Henry repressed a solemn sigh. "Always the romantic with you," he teased.

"Of course you knew that from when we first met, remember?" she rejoined, as the dynamic between them shifted from gentle simplicity to gauche unease.

"I remember," he said after a long, thoughtful moment. His blue eyes took on a sudden, melancholic hue, his tender voice falling to a deeper timbre. He looked at her, his gaze becoming darker, poignant as the memories jutted through his jovial mind with the velocity of a shooting star. A myriad of emotions emerged from those azure depths, vanishing after a brief moment, his happiness falling into the ashes of remorse.

"Oh, Gwendolyn," he murmured quietly, his face, as if moving of its own volition, moving forward, a breadth above hers.

Wendy suppressed an instinctive shudder from his almost-touch, before his mouth descended upon hers with a burning, searing need of absolution. And they kissed in the darkened twilight, the shadows obscuring them from the stars' sentient watch. Their movements in the quiet stillness marked those of a lover's beginning, a promise before the actual consummation of souls.

The kiss deepened, and Wendy felt herself give in to her betrothed's evocative ministrations, never feeling as such from him before—for he had always been courteous and never so empowering. She smiled at the utter mockery of that preferred pretence, and secretly revelled in his kiss. Her hands encircled his arms, as if promising him, and no other, her prized innocence. She barely felt the oncoming force that overpowered her mind until it was too late.

"Oh, my God," she cried, pulling away from him.

"What is it?" Henry asked, worried as she held her head in apparent pain. "What is wrong?"

"My head…is hurting," she reluctantly whispered.

"Come," he urged, taking her by the arms. "Let us go inside. This cold will not help with your headache."

…

The evening's upsurge of events drew to a dramatic close as Henry Quiller-Couch, after having been relinquished of his fainting fiancée to the concerned care of her parents, bade the Darlings a rueful good-night. His brief explanations of what had transpired in the gardens left no suspicion as to what had happened. Another fainting spell, as was said by the grim-faced Aunt Millicent, who had made it her business to know every nuance and trick a young lady might devise in her scheme to rid herself of an unwanted suitor. But to Wendy's parents, it was quite the opposite.

The concern for their daughter's welfare forestalled the smelling salts offered as Mr. Darling carried the lifeless figure of his daughter up the stairs and into the sanctuary of her room. Mrs. Darling placed a cold cloth against the blinding agony that swelled within her beloved child's mind, her motherly assurances murmured against her daughter's deafened ear. Wendy was unaware of her parents' presence, wholly ignorant of their distress as she succumbed to the hypnotic pull of sleep.

And so she slept, for the better part of an hour alone, her parents reluctantly leaving her to rest. The ache within her mind subsided under the gentle lull of solitude, as a quiet breeze crept through the cracked windowsill, allaying the remnants of pain. Her eyes opened then, blurry to the world surrounding her. A pained groan emitted from her, and she removed the cold cloth from her head.

She felt weak, robbed of her former strength, the numbed pain within her leg a dull throb. She closed her eyes, swaying madly against the throes of consciousness, her memories before fainting returning in full measure.

The image of Henry and his gentle words before kissing her, as well as the kiss itself, made her smile. She almost felt…safe, with him, like nothing could tear her away from the momentary happiness he shared with her. And though he was reluctant to show any emotion akin to passion, she saw a fragment of it within his eyes before reinforcing it with his kiss.

A sigh, filled with deep contentment, escaped her, her thoughts remaining solely upon the man who graced her with such adoration. Her reservations of the forthcoming day were completely obliterated as she gazed upon the ring that adorned her ring finger, its diamond faceted cut mirroring the promise her beloved Henry had made to her. Her head inclined as she, at last, truly accepted his proposal, and all that it entailed. She would be happy then, and would perhaps come to lo—

Call it off!

Wendy's head rose in surprise. The voice, her mind whispered. A sable brow creased in partial disbelief. It was here, though she had not called for it.

"What?" she could only ask, her eyes darkening in question as she heard the cold tone in the voice's sharp rebuke. She suddenly felt afraid, frightened, as she hesitantly forced herself to whisper, "Why do you wish for me to call off my wedding?"

It remained silent for a moment, as if debating whether to continue or have leave of her entirely.

You will call off this sham of a marriage. You shame yourself and your family by prolonging this farce, it said at last.

Wendy recoiled at its words, feeling the bitter sting of its said truth. But despite its honesty, she ignored it. "But I am happy. Henry is a good man, and he cares for me. We will be happy in our marriage," she explained, hoping to placate the voice, which was now vacant of its foreign accent.

You deceive yourself, it returned coldly, in perfect, unadulterated English.

"How dare you?" Wendy retorted, not caring if she furthered its ire. "Why do you care of whom I choose to marry? You never objected before," she muttered bitterly.

I had no reason to, before, it reproached. That whelp you deem betrothed was but a fleeting pursuit, as you did not wish to marry him. He abandoned you, as well, non? it questioned, reminding Wendy of her fiancé's extended absence. He does not care for you, ma belle, not as I do.

And why do you care? she wanted to say, but could not find the courage to. In truth, she feared its answer, as its possessive jealousy moved her to worry. For never before had she heard such wrath, such agonising fury, not since her time in the Neverland, and even then the man she feared was no longer counted among the living. No, something beyond her reasonable comprehension warned her to sever all ties with this entity before something more than a mere headache stemmed from its now voracious anger.

And with this pained realisation, Wendy conceded.

"Please, try to understand that I will be all right. Henry will take care of me." She closed her eyes, the reluctance of uttering her next words almost forcing her into a premature submission. "You have been with me since I can remember, always reassuring me, guiding me. When I needed someone, you were there to protect me, to wipe away the tears I shed over my pain. And I will be forever grateful for that…" She hesitated, but then continued, knowing it was her duty to speak these final, condemning words. "But I must ask you to leave me now. It would be unfair of me to ignore you, when I have a husband who is destined to take your place."

She shook her head solemnly, continuing her trail of consciousness. "But yet, I cannot ignore Henry, either. It would be unfair to him, as well." Her head fell in utter dejection as she delivered the fatal blow. "And I sadly realise that…I do not need you anymore, for you belong to one who is a child, and not someone who is grown up."

She waited for it to speak, but heard nothing, as she felt only the dire coldness of its silent evasion. It left her, she realised, without a word or concern it abandoned her to the isolation she felt before its first appearance. And with this, she knew that she had ultimately destroyed the one, true friendship she had, as Peter had long forgotten her, and her brothers and family only knowing a fragment of her true thoughts and feelings. No one else knew her, save for the voice who knew everything.

And what had she done but rejected it with the genteel decorum of a true, unbelieving lady. Wendy cried out at the thought; the sudden, unexpected exodus of her beloved guide almost too much for her to bear. She allowed only a single tear to fall at her loss.

Never had she felt such shame, such pained remorse—not even the pang of guilt for worrying her parents during her first visit to the Neverland could compare to the regret of dismissing the voice. She did not even know its name, finding that it did not matter whether she knew it or not. It was only the thought of having someone there—even if she could only hear and not see the figure that calmed her—that could understand and remain faithfully by her side. She could not even remember when it first came to her, as it was so long ago.

But it no longer mattered. She would be a married woman on the 'morrow. And nothing, not even her beloved comforter, or the fragile cask that held the wasted dreams of sharing her life with another, could prevent her impending marriage.

And thus, Wendy Moira Angela Darling wiped the frozen tear from a cold cheek, righting herself in the bed as she did so. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow would be the beginning of her newest and greatest adventure of all; her dreams forged in the innocence of childhood forever cast aside, her desires for a real future inevitably coming to life.

Her eyes closed then, blissfully unaware that her thoughts held the promise of the adventure she secretly yearned for, and so much more. And so fitfully tired and defeated was she that her dreams were oblivious to the dark figure that loomed so dejectedly at the edge of them, always watching, and waiting. A silent promise echoed duly against the colourful foray of childish imaginings, its firm assurance, though sadly disregarded.

The figure suppressed a forlorn cry of outrage; and its haunted eyes gleamed with a profound shade of melancholy. It lingered there, if only for a moment, watching its sleeping charge before dissolving completely into the darkened recesses of her mind, its tacit vow the only remnant of its presence.

…

Author's Note: I realise that this chapter was rather long, but I did not have the heart to shorten it. All of what was mentioned is rather key to the story, so I suppose that it was important for this chapter to be long. Yet I like to write very long chapters. But I highly doubt that any other chapter will surpass the length of this one too much. I do not usually write anything past this length, as I tend to regret it later. Trust me; it makes me want to cry when I look over something well over thirteen thousand words by the third revision. I find grammar and such to become rather taxing, then.

But for those who like long chapters and stay with me, I promise it will be well worth it in the end. You have my word! As I am sure some enjoy the idea of another adventure in Neverland, I promise it is an adventure unlike any other with quite a lot of mystery and romance added into the mix. And I had best shut up before I give too much away. :)

Nevertheless, our tragic tale begins, where the fair and radiant Wendy is but a shadow of herself. The pain and agony of loss is something that is conveyed not only through her accident, which will be explained later, but also by the war itself. I must admit that having John go to war, and come back in a form of catatonic shock, would trouble anyone, especially those closest to him—as can be seen through Wendy.

This chapter, disjointed as it is, reflects the war itself. As I really wanted to illustrate how devastating the First World War was for not only the soldiers, but for their families and those who were away from the battlegrounds. The propaganda, combined with the overall reasons for countries getting into the war, is mind shattering—even from a present-day perspective, which is even more negative and critical of the atrocities spurred by the minds of those who did not even die at the battlefront.

Be that as it may, I am working with history, which may be biased at times. I implore forgiveness for any errors made. And be it by my own discretion to mention that I know it would be ridiculous for Wendy not to have taken a little French. Well-brought-up girls during that era were taught such a language, usually even before finishing school. It would be socially unheard of if they did not know any of the fundamental principles of both French and Latin. But for the sake of Wendy, and for that of my story, let us pretend a what-if scenario where she and her fiancé, Henry, were exempt of that meandering obligation.

In addition, I realise that Wendy's other studies would have most certainly led to learning the French language—or at least part of it—as it was almost gospel in the curriculum of finishing/boarding schools at the time. Most young women learned Latin, French, and perhaps a third language. But more often than not, French was the one widely taught in schools.

In my version, however, I have held Wendy exempt of that demanding study for a reason. Also, I find there to be a small, if not slight possibility that she could have hedged around the institutionalised system of education and gotten clean away with only learning Latin. I take full liberty in divulging this small indiscretion, seeing as I have need for it later. :)

Also, on an added note, I admit that this is probably far from any Peter Pan story out there: war, loss, being forced to grow up in such a hellish time, all of which show a very dim future for our heroine. I confess that all of it seems quite far from the bittersweet tale we know. I only disclose this as a possibility of how Wendy truly grew up, as I set the time seven years after the novel's 1911 publication where Wendy is little more than twenty. (More of a concise summary can be found in my author's profile.)

But anyway, I dare hope that everyone is enjoying this story Sorry for any confusion in this chapter. Everything will be cleared up soon. Also, I hope that no one finds Wendy to be too weak or naïve when it comes to her fiancé or life in general. Trust me; she has been through quite a lot, which can very well change one's outlook on things. And I realise that most will question her sanity. I will just say that she is far from being schizophrenic, and that the truth will soon come to light, though I doubt that she will be pleased by it.

Any guesses on who the voice could be?

Thanks again, for the wonderful reviews! I truly appreciate them. :)