Wendy Darling looked up suddenly, stiffening, her eyes frozen on the bedroom window. Her hands stilled on her book, mid-way through turning a page, and the room seemed to hold its breath. What was that? She had certainly heard something – a low thud, like a weight being dropped.
The sky outside presented no outstanding view. It was a chilly December night: the sky was as black as the roads were snowy. From the flicking glow of her nightlight Wendy could see the naked branches of the oak tree in the garden, swaying ominously in a cold breeze. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
Funny, she thought. She could have sworn she had heard something…
With a sigh she returned to her novel, a small crease of a frown between her brows, absolutely oblivious to the boy looking in at the window.
The window was different. Had they changed it? It was shorter and not as wide – he would have had to crouch to enter the room. It was only partially open, too – they had always kept the window wide – and now he had to watch her through a sheet of glass.
And then there was the room, which was smaller by far and much less interesting, with little furniture and only one occupant. Where were the boys? He couldn't see either John or Michael and there was only one bed: neither of the brothers was in it. What had happened to them?
Wendy Darling was reading.
Wendy. It was Wendy, wasn't it? Yes, it was Wendy, but… different. Not-Wendy. She wasn't wearing the white nightgown anymore. Instead she was dressed in a pale pink gown with ruffles and a puffy skirt: when had Wendy become so womanly?! Her face was almost the same but it was thinner – older? – and it was not smiling. There were no sparkles in her downcast eyes. Instead, Peter was sure he saw sorrow residing there.
And when had Wendy ever worn her hair up?
Not-Wendy, thought Peter. Not my Wendy.
There was a gentle knock at the door.
"Come in," said Wendy.
Peter shifted in the shadows to make sure he wouldn't be seen but continued to watch, waiting for John or Michael to enter the room with a wild Indian cry.
It was Mrs. Darling and, unlike her daughter, she did not appear to have aged at all. Slowly she entered the room and perched herself on the bed opposite her daughter with steady movements, quite like the way Peter would walk when he was sneaking up on the Lost Boys to scare them. Well, Mrs. Darling was going about sneaking completely wrong – Wendy could see her! What a waste of caution, he thought.
"It is very late, sweet heart. Shouldn't you be sleeping?"
"I couldn't sleep," admitted Wendy.
Mrs. Darling glanced from Wendy's dress to the neat bedsheets. "Have you even tried?"
Wendy did not answer, which Peter thought was very strange because Wendy liked talking.
Pursing her sweet mouth, Mrs. Darling slowly leant forward, her voice a comforting sound like the hum of the forest at night. "Is it Richard?"
Wendy nodded.
"What is it, darling? Has something happened?"
Wendy seemed to struggle. Had she forgotten how to speak?
All of a sudden, with a terrible wail, she burst into tears. "I- I think I care for him, mother!"
"Wendy, sweet heart! What is there to be sad about? T'is a beautiful thing."
"But I d-don't think he cares for me in return!"
Mrs. Darling reached out to take her daughter's hand and Peter saw her mouth twitch. "Is that what's been bothering you?"
With a loud, noisy sniff, Wendy nodded, and Mrs. Darling pulled a small piece of cloth from her sleeve which she gave to her daughter. Wendy mopped away her tears.
"Then, my dear, you have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all!" she declared. "This very evening after the party, Richard came to your father and I and asked to speak with him in private. When your father returned, he told me that Richard had asked for his blessing and that he had given it."
When Wendy looked up her face was alight with hope and wonder. "You don't mean to say-?"
"Yes! Richard is planning to propose to you, this here Friday after the dinner!"
"Oh, mother!"
Mother and daughter leapt into a joyous embrace, loud with Wendy's excited squeals and Mrs. Darling's laughter, tears in her eyes. Peter frowned at them. He was confused. What was happening? Why had Wendy cried? Why were they so excited? And, if they were so excited, why was Mrs. Darling crying now? He recognized the words they were using but he did not understand them, for it had been so long since he had heard them.
"But, Wendy, you mustn't let on that you know."
"Of course!"
"Wendy, darling, you are so lucky. So young and soon to be betrothed… soon to be married!"
… Married?
There was the sparkle in Wendy's eye that he knew so well. She beamed brightly at her mother, young and delighted. "Married to Richard! Can you believe it? I am getting married to Richard! Richard is going to be my husband-!"
Husband.
Husband.
Husband.
Husband. Husband. Husband. Husband. Husband. Husband. Husband. Husband. Husband.
'What is this, I see? There is another in your place… He is called – husband.'
Peter slammed the window shut and took off before Wendy or Mrs. Darling even had time to turn around.
Peter had come back to hear a story. That was how it started before. He had come to listen to the story about the glass slipper… He wanted to hear the stories again: he wanted to hear her voice and see her face.
He had told her he would come back.
How long ago had that been? It felt like mere days to Peter but, alas, he had forgotten that time was different in Neverland. You were always having much too much fun to notice that time was passing.
And now he was too late.
Wendy – Not-Wendy. She was older. She had grown up, but wasn't she still a child? She did not look like Mrs. Darling did: she did not look like a woman, just the beginning of one.
Wendy had grown up and left her childhood behind.
Husband. Husband.
'There is another in your place…'
Peter flew through the sky like a bullet. His vision blurred and he rubbed roughly at his eyes with the back of his hand, hardly daring to think, hardly daring to breathe.
He had to stop. Landing on a rooftop far away from Bloomsbury, he knelt against the chimney and trembled. His body shook with chills but he felt so hot that it was like he was suffocating. Oh, he felt like a volcano!: ready to erupt, to burst open and scream so loud that all of London would hear.
Every part of him ached with confusion. He shook himself and stood, finally daring to glance back in the direction of Wendy, and one lonely sob escaped his mouth.
Peter took to the sky. Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning.
He did not look back again.
AN: I would love to know what you guys think of this chapter. Do you think Peter ever went back? Did Wendy find love again? Is the ending to the Peter Pan story bittersweet?(yes!)
Please review, add to faves, subscribe, ect! It really helps me out a lot and every e-mail I get from telling me someone has done that is like a little teddy bear hug! :3
Thanks for reading!
~ Hahs xx
