Chapter Fourteen: Calm in the Storm
"Take care lest an adventure is now offered you, which, if accepted, will plunge you in deepest woe." - Peter Pan
Peter was very nearly twelve when his Father left in search of his grandest adventure yet, one he'd retold enough times by the jovial leaping of the orange hearth that it was engraved in Peter's head; he was to look for the Fountain of Youth.
The whereabouts of the Fountain were unknown, even to the Captain, though he acted, pretended, so well that his entire crew believed that he knew exactly where to sail, that he knew every wind current on the way, no matter how sharp, and that he knew exactly what he was sailing his ship and his crew into. If only he'd known what he would Lose in this voyage; alas, his Dream was to go on an adventure, and an adventure he shall go on fore if he had not, there would be no story nor any such Boy as Peter Pan.
Captain Pan was sure the Fountain had to be on a collection of islands; they'd tried to search Mainlands before and come up empty-handed. Though, Pan'd heard of those whom had gone to islands; many never made it back. That made his heart's beat turn rapid, not out of fear, but out of wonder; he lived for it, surely, adventure and he couldn't believe he'd been appointed to something so high a task of looking for a legend!
The Captain wasn't aware that all the other Captains and the Crown had set him to this task because of its impossibility. They highly expected him to fail - hell, that was the point; they'd all grown tired of Pan's saying of "Pan never fails" and had decided, in secret, they would see what good a Captain he really was, make him eat his words. No sane Captain was to send him and his crew after a fleeting impossibility and a legend; and yet, Pan had accepted rather cheerily and had even told them, just to make it more impossible, that he would be back in a month to prove to them that he had indeed found the Fountain.
He should've considered his family; his eldest son was fourteen, his youngest twelve in a month (as he reminded his Father constantly). He should've thought of his wife, kissed her twice, twirled her upon the stairwell one last time before he'd set off, should've heeded her "Do be careful, sweet" instead of brushing it away with a jovial laugh, to which he'd grabbed her waist and asked in her neck whom he was. "Pan," She'd laughed, rolled her eyes. "My John Pan; my reckless, adventure-craving, sea-stained John Pan."
"The one and only," He'd said, laughing, before kissing his wife and saying he'd love her always and he'd be back soon. Then he'd turned to his sons, Peter first; Peter was always first and always last to John and he meant no offence to his eldest son, he just knew, deep in his heart, that Peter was meant for greatness as he fore Peter was a Pretender, a Dreamer, and John's Dreams were coming true and if he could make the impossible possible, so could Peter.
"You're really going, then?" Peter asked, conflicted; he was excited for his Father's adventure but he hated that he had to leave, and so close to his birthday, too.
"Yes," John said, kneeling down on his knee so he could look to his son's eye, "I'll be back, though, before your birthday; I'll have a right fine gift for you by then. And a story."
Peter's eyes widened and his mouth fell agape. "Oh! A story! What of?"
"My adventures," John breathed, a smile on his lips. He glanced to Peter's older brother, his eldest son, whom's lips had grown tight at the mention of his Father's stories. John moved to hold Peter's hands, and rubbed his calloused thumbs over Peter's soft youthful fingers, as he whispered so only Peter could hear, "While I'm gone, Peter, I want you to make me a promise."
Peter raised an eyebrow, much like his Mother would do when John said something especially questionable. "What sort of promise?" He asked.
"A pinky promise," John said, taking a hand back to hold his pinky out, erect. Peter readied his pinky as well but his Father laughed. "I haven't even said what it was we were promising over!"
Peter shrugged his shoulders, smiling. "I don't need to know," He said, trying to lope his pinky around his Father's, who held his back, laughing along with Peter.
"Oh course you need to know," John said. "Listen to me now," Peter ceased his laughing as his Father inclined forward to tell him. Peter made a show of inclining his ear to his Father, awaiting his promise Peter had to keep. John whispered it, so that neither Peter's Mother nor Benny could hear: "Promise me you won't grow up while I'm away."
Peter might've been young but he wasn't foolish. "That's impossible," He said, taking his ear back, his pinky not standing as tall.
"Only if you believe it is, Peter," John said, holding his pinky out so that it stood more prominently. Peter uneasily loped his pinky around his Father's until they entwined; meeting his Father's eyes, Peter nodded, trying to seem confident, even a little bit, enough to convince his Father that he wouldn't fail, couldn't fail.
John stood, ruffled Peter's hair, their pinkies falling apart; John turned to his eldest son, Benny, already tall as him, with shoulders he tried to broaden by straightening and a chin he tried to lift to seem older, more capeable than he was.
Benny was older, more mature, than Peter. He knew far too much and knowledge, it killed one's innocence. John looked to his eldest son, already so much like him, and he placed a hand on his shoulder, not bothering to kneel as he had to Peter; it wasn't because of Peter's height, either, fore Peter was maybe an inch or two shorter than Benny. With his hand on Benny's shoulder, John began to speak, though there was no time for small talk, not now. "Benny, do you remember our promise we made? On the rigging?"
Peter, whom was listening closely, his Mother's hand on his shoulder forbidding him from physically bettering his placement to hear them, furrowed his brow at the rigging bit. His Father had taken Benny to the rigging to talk and hadn't thought to let Peter come, when Peter had always dreamt of sitting on the rigging with his Father, dangling his feet over the edge? How was that fair?
Benny nodded, his eyes looking to his Father's right hand, and he nodded again, more forcefully. "Yes," He said, but looked quickly to his Father's face, "but I - "
" - Can," John said, meeting his son's eyes. "You can, Benny."
Benny nodded, his Father lifting his hand, turning, turning his back on them, on his family and Benny rushed forward, on impulse, crashing into his Father, grappling for a hug, for anything, because out of every feeling coursing through Benny, the most promienent, the one that screamed within him, was fear. Fear of being forgotten.
He'd always heard of it, men at sea forgetting their families, their faces, their addresses, and Benny didn't want that to happen, he didn't want to forever be known as the Man of the Pan household. Being the older of the two, the more mature, the less vieled, Benny said, cried, choked, to his Father the last words he'd ever hear from his family; the desperation, the fear, the realisation of "I just want you to come back home. To us."
Captain Pan was of the jolly sort, the sort that joked to the Devil when they were dealing, smirked while he was gambling, laughed while he dying; so when he was given his family's concern in boxes of flamboyant colours and curled ribbon, he took them and daintly pulled away their wrapping with a quirk of his lip and a pull of his fingers, waiting until the tickticktock grew louder and louder to which he would hold it up to his ear, give it a shake, his eyes twinkling, the exclaimination of Why, I wonder what it could be! leaving his lips just before it burst in his hands.
When Benny said this, Pan didn't know how to react but to laugh, to ease the tension of his leave because it was obvious that this goodbye would be their last. They could all feel it, surely, fore Peter moved to hold his Mother's hand and his Mother placed a hand on her eldest son's sloping shoulder as they walked their Father, their Husband, their Captain to port and they held each other, held their family together, with frayed threads that were hands and tears that were the glue.
It was the day before Peter's birthday when the messenger came and gave a thundering knock upon the Pan's household. Peter was the one to answer, thinking it would be his Mother's family come to visit; when he pulled the door open, took in the young man before him, his profile highlighted by the setting sun, and the man asked, in a breathless, mournful tone "Can I speak to the Man and Lady of the household, son?" Peter knew. His gaze fell to the man's shoes, to the shadow pooled beneath his feet, and Peter's hand left the doorframe as his Mother moved forward, a hand finding Peter's shoulder. "Yes?"
"You're Mrs. Pan?"
Peter's Mother held her head high, nodding, her hair bouncing with the movement. She looked the man in the eyes, held his gaze, matched it. "Yes, I am. Is there something you - "
The man pulled his hat away from his head, placed it over his heart, his eyes bloodshot and melancholy, far too sad for his age, his youth. "I'm afraid I have some bad news. Could I - " He indicated with his hat to come in.
Peter's Mother pulled him aside with her, her nails biting into his shoulder. Benny rounded the bend of the living area to the main entrance and he started, blinking, staring at the man with his melancholy eyes and his panicked Mother and his little brother. "Who are you?" Benny'd asked harshly in a voice cut of steel.
"My name is David Jones," The man had said, wringing his hands around the rim of his hat. "I own the pub Vanderdecken along the coast of the Western Cape. I was sent to deliver a message," His eyes cut to Peter and he said quickly, "about Captain Pan and his whereabouts. Well, his last known whereabouts, more like."
Peter's Mother and Benny shared a sharp look and they allowed David Jones in, walked with him to the dining area in pin-drop silence. Peter swore he could hear his Mother's heart, could feel her rapid pulse from her hand in his. Benny opened the door, let David Jones slip in. Peter's Mother walked in next, giving her son's hand a squeeze. Peter went to go in, too, but Benny stepped into his way. Peter glanced to him, trying to see past his body to his Mother. "Benny, let me through."
"I'm sorry, Peter, but I'm afraid this conversation is meant for ... Grown-ups."
"Benny, please, I want to know - "
"No, Peter. Stay out here. Go play or something, alright?"
The door closed, locked, and Peter stared at it, affronted. Why wouldn't they let him listen? He wanted to know about Father, too! It was his birthday tomorrow, if anything, he should know of Father's story first.
Peter glared at the door, placed his ear to it, tried to hear. There were whispers, the screech of wood of the chairs against the floor, and a clear of a throat. The words were still whispers and Peter couldn't catch any of them, not over the thrumming of his heart in his throat. There was an exclaim then, a choked sob; "Missing?!"
"No, not missing," Peter managed to catch from the man by the name of David Jones. "Lost."
Peter could hear no more of the conversation fore his eyes were unseeing, his arms tingling numb, his heart thumpthumpthumping with a fire, and Peter backed away from the door, not understanding, not comprehending, but he knew and the knowledge surged within him, roared and raged until it screamed out of him, ripped up his throat until his voice was hoarse and the house was hit with a torrent of rain, of hail, of pain, of emotion, and Peter fell too his knees before the closed door, screaming and sobbing; he held his face in his hands as his shoulders shook and the house was swallowed by the storm just as the storm within Peter consumed him whole.
A hand touched Peter's shoulder and Peter froze, tremebling, and looked to the hand; it was Dark and black as night with fingers long and terrifying like serpents. Peter's eyes trailed from its fingers to the shadow's face, confused, and the shadow looked to his with blank eyes, a Shade of whatever it had been before. Peter's eyes then moved to his feet where the shadow and him stayed connected; looking back to the Shadow's face, Peter recognised it and the Shadow recognised him. Peter placed a tenative hand over the Shadow's fingers, held it there as bolts of lightnining emblazoned the hallway, as thunder roared and howled outside.
The knob of the door turned after a click and David Jones walked out, his lips parting, eyes widening as he watched the boy's shadow fly behind him, cower. He blinked, shook his head, rubbed a pale hand over his face. He mumbled, whispered, "I'm seeing ghosts now ... What's next, a bloody ghost ship?!" before walking past Peter, who watched him leave the house, his shadow at his back, its grip slowly fading until there was nothing holding him down any longer, until he could stand on buckling knees, peek around the corner to where his Mother's cries met his ears, where her bent form met his eyes; he watched his brother leave his Mother's side, his hand meant for comfort moving to pick up one of his Father's wine bottles to which he threw to the ground where it shattered, glass shining in a puddle of red wine Peter could only think of as blood. Peter watched his brother move to other forms of destruction; he picked up a chair, threw it at a wall until it broke into shards of wood; moved to his Mother's plates, shoving a rack of them to the floor; then he picked up his Father's Book of Stories and his gleaming eyes cut to the hearth.
Peter ran at his brother, raked his nails down his arms like claws until blood slickened Benny's arm and Peter fought Benny like something wild, something demonic, and Peter screamed, shrieked, snarled, as he fought his brother, fought him hard, and all was in vain fore Benny was not capable of sense, of listening, because he couldn't hear, not at all, not over the screaming of the storm around him, not over the aching of his heart, not over the broken promises filtering through his ears, and especially not over the pain that cried out, roared, seethed, writhed, within him, that whispered to him to let the Book fly, to let it leave his fingers, to let it crash into the coals of the hearth, to the greedy tongues of flame that leapt for the pages, for the stories, for the memories.
Benny snapped out of it, seeing his brother fall to his knees near the fire, see him frantically reach into the flames, one hand moving for the poker before abandoning the idea completely, both hands surging for the flames. Benny rushed forward, pulled Peter from the fire and Peter fought against him, screaming in his face until his voice was lost and his sobs were silent and Benny had fished the book's burnt cover and its ashy pages from the beckoning fingers of flame, left it to cool as the drops of blood wine rolled for the tarnished novel of memorises, of stories told before the shadows overtook the house as the moon went high in the sky and the stars winked and waved and the night-lights were lit for the young who were afraid, always afraid.
That was all gone now. Lost.
Benny held Peter in his arms and he cried into his hair, cradled Peter's head and his shoulders shook; Peter sat still in his brother's embrace, allowed it, because this was the closest they'd been since his Father had left. Peter didn't cry like a little Lost Boy; he howled like a pained animal. He howled to release the pain inside of him, that ate him away, that swirled and grew until it simply t out of Peter in a cry that split the sky in two, a cry that birthed hurricanes in the seas, a cry that ran on the wind of the Never Aging and circled the head of a man presumed dead, presumed missing, presumed Lost.
...
Tinkerbell was moving swiftly, quickly, the girl's screams still clawing at her mind just as the wind hit her face, raked through her hair, curled along her chin and pinched her nose, asking, Where is it you're going? Such a hurry, too. Don't you want to slow down, look around, play for a moment, for a second?
Tinkerbell flicked her wrist at the thought as if it were an annoying bug buzzing in her ear; this happened every time she left her Tree. Neverland tried to talk to her, to convince her; Tinkerbell, do come play; whatever it is you're doing can wait.
She only pushed harder, ran faster; she couldn't stop because if she did, they'd catch her and she'd be whisked away, brainwashed, turned into a perfect Fairy that couldn't feel besides for itself and she couldn't do that, not when the girl with her cries like screeches of a tortured Bird still rung in her ears, not when Felix's words circled her head, not when Peter didn't know, couldn't know.
She didn't know much either, it seemed. Actually, she was completely in the Dark. She only knew the message from Felix's lips but not his voice. She only knew the ground beneath her feet as she ran because that was all she'd ever done was run; without Wings, there was little else to do. She only knew Peter, protecting Peter, because Peter had no one where Tinkerbell had had the Fairies and even with the Fairies and their lovely lies of a united family, Peter still felt alone and Lost.
When he'd first spoken to Tinkerbell alone, he'd asked for a story. His age was hard to tell fore his innocence, his lack of memory, had made him a child, even lesser than one. He'd been Reborn and all children expected a story to comfort them, especially at a time like this. He was afraid and small and fragile, with only a few fragments of his Past still in his head, and those were all painful enough. He sat at the edge of the fur-blanketed bed, the bed the Fairies had built him in the Hanging Tree, his new Home, and he'd thrown his head back against the pillow, thrown the blanket from his legs and said in a childish voice, "I can't sleep."
"Why is that?" Tink had asked, standing off to the side of Peter's large room, built in the trunk of the Tree. She'd glanced anxiously to the hole in the truck that was her exit out and could see the last rays of sun leaving the tips of the tallest trees.
She hadn't really been interested. She had things to do and they most certainly hadn't involved babysitting a kid. Even so, despite Tinkerbell's distant thoughts, her head turned, whipped, when she heard Peter say, "Every time I close my eyes, I ... see things. Monsters. Beasts. And they're here. On the island, with me. But, then, there are these lights and they blink on, blink, blink, blink," Peter blinked along with his repetition of the word, "and they chase them away, the monsters. What are they?"
"Stars," Tinkerbell had said. "They keep you safe when it's Dark."
"No, not stars," Peter said, shaking his head, staring up at the ceiling. "I know what stars are. But ... They were brighter. And they sounded ... Like bells. Like the tinkling of bells." Peter smiled then, a carefree, blissful smile, the smile of a Boy with no troubles at all.
Tinkerbell shared her smile with Peter, glancing sideways to the trunk and the Stars winking to life above. She sighed, turned her back on the trunk, her duties, and perched on the edge of the bed, looking at Peter, who blew his bangs from his face and looked to her out of the corner of his eye. "You're right; those aren't stars. They're fairies."
Peter's eyes widened and he sat up straight, crossed his legs beneath him. "Fairies!"
"Oh, yes," Tinkerbell continued, "You do believe in fairies, don't you?"
"Of course!" Peter exclaimed.
"Then I'm sure you know the story of the birth of Fairies," Tinkerbell smiled, watched Peter's eyes dart to Tink as he bounced forward.
"Tell me!"
"Okay, okay," Tinkerbell laughed, glancing to the Boy amiss his blankets. "First, tuck in."
Peter looked to her.
"Here, lay back," Tinkerbell tucked Peter in, the blanket to his chin. "Now," she began, meeting his eager eyes, "When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies."
Peter nodded, expecting more though Tinkerbell had none to share. "Is that it?" He asked after a long moment.
"Yes," Tinkerbell said, "that's just the beginning, though, there's much - "
"Where's the adventure?" Peter asked immeaditly, ripping up from his blankets. "Where's the gutting and the killing and the stabbing?" Peter made a motion for each action listed, thrusting his make-believe sword (which became very real in Peter's hand.) "When's that part? Is it soon?"
Tinkerbell had to duck as Peter swung his sword and she watched him with wide eyes, shaking her head slightly. "They don't really fight like that. It's too ... Mortal."
"What's that mean?" Peter asked, lowering his sword, a confused expression on his face, wrinkling his nose.
"Nothing to concern you, Peter," she'd said, just as the Fairies had told her.
Keep him in the Dark, they'd said. Don't let him know, don't let him remember.
"Well, I've got to go," Tinkerbell had said, looking back to the hole in the top of the trunk where the stars glittered. Tinkerbell retucked Peter in, turning to leave, to squeeze up the hole.
"Wait," Peter had called. Tinkerbell had turned, raised an eyebrow as Peter looked to her, his eyes slightly unsettled. "Aren't you going to light a night-light?"
Tinkerbell lit a pitch-torch with the last red jewels of the dying hearth. She perched it near Peter's head and he glanced to it, shook his head, and pointed to the darkest corner of his room. "There," He said and only replaced his head to the pillow when she'd locked the torch in place.
Tinkerbell looked to him, moving to the trunk, her exit out. "Anything else ... ?"
"No, thank you," Peter said, before raising his head just as Tinkerbell thought she could sneak away. "What was your name again?"
"Tinkerbell," She'd said over her shoulder, slinking forward. She winced when Peter spoke again, wondering when she'd ever be let to leave. "Well, Tinkerbell, will you come back tomorrow?"
Tinkerbell had turned and noticed Peter's raised head from the pillow. She sighed, shrugging. "Sure. Why?"
"I want another story," Peter said, yawning hugely, his eyes near closing.
"Another story?" Tink had asked, her shoulders slumping. The Birth of the Fairies was the only story she knew.
"Yeah," Peter said, slipping his hands under his chin; he opened one eye a peek. "If you haven't got any other stories, you can make them up. If you're going to do that, though, can you make them up with swords? That makes them more exciting."
Tinkerbell couldn't say no to Peter's innocent smile, to his peek of a look, to his already soothing breaths of near-sleep. She walked forward to Peter and pinched his nose with her fingers, brushed his bangs from his forehead. "We'll see."
Tinkerbell was nearing Peter's hideaway when she remembered, when she snapped out of her dreaming; she was looking for Peter to tell him of the present, the future, not the past. He didn't remember most of the Past than what she'd told him and she'd him far too much, hadn't she? She'd crossed a line when she'd cared, when her feelings had interfered.
She needed to think only of her task at hand; she would be no help to Peter with her mind focused on the innocent version of Peter she'd met his first day in Neverland. Neverland changed him, morphed him, moulded him; Peter was Wild now. He was reckless and hurt and confused and whatever was going on had to be the reason for his confusion.
A flicker of light flitted to her face, poked her in the cheek. It was a young man's voice, one she'd known, one she'd had to give up to keep Peter safe, one she'd had to choose between and she hadn't chosen him. Despite that, he didn't whisper honeyed lies in her ears, he whispered, Tink. You're going to go find him, aren't you?
Tinkerbell nodded, not bothering to swat this one. "I have to," She said, glancing to the light. She could barely see the body of the Fairy; Fairies in their Lit forms were much harder to catch. Tinkerbell couldn't do that, turn Lit, without her Wings.
He whispered to her again, Tink ... You don't have to do anything. But, you will. I know you will. His wings fell and he perched down on her shoulder, pulled up his knees and grabbed a fistful of her clothes to keep him upright. He turned his head and looked to her and Tinkerbell caught, for a moment, the flicker of an acorn button atop his glittering gold hair. You're incredibly stubborn, you know that?
Tinkerbell smiled and he could see, even then, the kiss at the corner of her mouth, the kiss not meant for him, never meant for him. "Of course I do," She said, laughing; the laugh made his knees buckle out and his hands to scramble for leverage on her leaf tunic. "Let's go find Peter."
The Fairy didn't complain, merely sighed, and held on tighter to her leaves; he hopped centimeters at every step she took and after a few moments of that and a fleeting thought of This is the closest we've been since you were ran out, he stood and kicked off her shoulder. I think I'll fly now, give you a scout.
"Thanks, Terence," Tinkerbell said, smiling faintly as the light darted off into the Dark of the Forest. Don't mention it.
Tinkerbell followed Terence's Light into the Dark; she hopped over branches, slid over rocks, and she only stopped when Terence's Light rounded on her, blinking erractically. Tink, we're nearing the Creek. I'm not sure if the Crocidile's out, but ... Do be careful.
Tinkerbell nodded; soon enough, Terence, instead of moving off into the Dark, came in close to Tinkerbell's face and crossed his arms, unamused. I'm serious, Tink, don't -
Tinkerbell rolled her eyes before setting them on Terence's impish golden face and his concerned blue eyes. "I'll be careful," She said, with the air of someone who most certaintly would not.
Terence groaned, his golden Light dimming slightly as he turned, obviously not convinced; he zoomed forward into the Dark, glowing far brighter than he typically did, maybe just so Tinkerbell could see him or because he wasn't exactly ecstatic about going off to save the kid, no matter that he was Neverland's.
Terence did care about Peter but he cared more for himself, more for Tinkerbell; that was the thing with Fairies. They were so small, they only had room for one emotion at a time; and all Terence could feel, could think, was of Tinkerbell and her safety. With Peter Pan, Tinkerbell wasn't safe, by any means; Terence knew Tink would risk everything to keep Peter alive and well, even if he was the reason she no longer was a part of the Tinkers, no longer considered a part of the Fairy Council, let alone the Fairy Community.
He had missed her, all those decades when she'd been away, hiding out in the Wood. He wasn't so sure she had missed him, though; she'd had enough on her plate, ignoring Peter yet trying to mischef with the Fairies' plans circling him, trying to balance them out.
Tinkerbell followed him quickly, her feet sinking in the damp ground until she was beside the shore of the Creek, staring down into the silver water. She glanced around it, unsettled; the Crocidile was normally not asleep with the moon so high and she wasn't one to complain, but it unnerved her to no end. She half expected it to swallow her whole as she hopped across the Creek, feet slipping over rocks slick with - please don't be blood, please don't be blood; thankfully, she got across without tumbling into the Creek and Terence met her at the other end, cutting a look behind him. I think his hideaway's this way; there's some house out there but it's hidden.
Tinkerbell nodded. "Yeah, that's his." It wasn't really his, he'd just adopted it; he'd built it for Wendy a long while ago and when she'd stopped visiting, it'd become his home when he wasn't allowed to the Tree.
Tinkerbell followed Terence, moving along with him, following the Light closely. She tried to blink the dots that shone in her mind's eye with it being so Dark and, as she walked, her foot nudged something. She bent down and picked it from the ground; a bloodied knife, its leather grip ridged with Crocidile bite marks. She shuddered, replaced it to her side sheath, and continued after Terence, her hand to its hilt; he stopped and observed the house from afar before turning to Tinkerbell, who took a breath, a rather shaky one at that. You alright?
"I don't know, Terence," Tinkerbell said, shrugging. "We'll see, I guess."
... Do you think he even remembers? You're probably just overreacting, Tink.
Tinkerbell narrowed her eyes at the Lit form that was Terence; she raised an eyebrow and he chuckled. At least when you're mad like this, you're face doesn't turn red.
"Oh, but it can," Tinkerebell said, completely having switched gears in emotion. "Look, let's just ... go."
Terence nodded, perching once again on her shoulder. Alright. He placed a hand on her shoulder, gave her a pinch. I'm right here.
Tinkerbell nodded before she took a steeling breath; she took a step forward and another until she was at the door, her fist up to knock. Tinkerebell didn't knock, though, no; she didn't need to be welcomed in, she didn't want Peter to welcome her in. She'd rather she barge in and see him, for the first time again.
So, she did; she threw the door wide open and didn't see what she expected to see. She would've thought Peter would be there alone. Instead, many of his Boys were there, all of them fighting, swords clashing, and Tinkerbell looked around, bewildered. Terence floated up to Tink's ear, wanting to shout to her to be heard over the noise, but instead his hands clasped around a strand of hair as she turned her head to the adults she'd met long ago, requesting to destroy Pan to get their son back.
Here they were, fighting not with him, not against him, but against each other. It didn't even seem that way; they weren't going for fatal blows, just enough to nick, to be sore the next morning. And there, in the center of it all, was Peter, her Peter, surveying it all, observing, critiquing.
Peter was different, she knew; with him being so far from her for so long, he'd learned to take care of himself. He was a Leader without her, and granted, he always had been, he just had no one to follow him. Here, there was no doubt in her mind that he was Neverland's last hope, no matter how Dark his heart had become; Tink's eyes flicked, catching his eye to a Boy, another Boy, in a plaid shirt with a soft smile and a Heart that simply radiated belief, belief in Peter, in Neverland.
Terence gasped, turning his head to look Tinkerbell in the eye. Tink! It's true! The prochecy! Terence turned his wide eyes to Peter and the Boy he shared his smile with. 'Two Kings shall rein the Land, hand-in-hand - '
"'They shall stand,'" Tinkerbell recited, eyes wide, a smile taking hold of her lips.
Peter, from across the room, looked away from Henry's face, from his smile, his brow furrowing. Looking to Henry, his eyebrow knit in confusion, Peter turned his head, his line of vision, to the door, where he could've sworn he'd heard words, tinkling along the echo of bells, and that's when his eyes caught Tinkerbell in the doorway, a flicker of golden light caught in her hair.
Peter froze, his heart near stopped, and everyone turned silent, stopped fighting; they could feel it, the room turn colder despite the fire, which sputtered now, and they cast their gaze between Peter and the girl - the woman - in the door.
Peter blinked, licked his lips. "Tink."
She looked up, met Peter's gaze. She smiled faintly. "Peter."
Peter surged forward then, not a moment of hesitation, the Boys jumping from his way; he raced at Tinkerbell and jumped at her, wrapping her in a hug. Tinkerbell's eyes widened and she let out a laugh, her hand finding itself tangled in Peter's hair as she held him close; after a long moment, Peter stepped back. "I take it you didn't forget, then?" She asked, smiling.
"No," Peter said, shaking his head; his hands fell at his sides and he smiled, though it seemed pained, forced. His eyes fogged, clouded, darted to his feet. "How long has it been?" He asked.
"A few decades at most," Tink said, guiltily.
"Well, I missed you," Peter said, looking to his hands. "A-and I'm ... sorry, for whatever I did. You know."
Tinkerbell nodded, not sure of what to do, how to react. He really didn't know. And, how could she expect him to? He wasn't considered a part of the Fairies; he was just there to them. He was their main objective, to protect at all and any costs; to protect for themselves, for Neverland, for their existence. They weren't there for Peter and they never had been. Tinkerbell had changed that and nobody, especially the Council, liked a rogue Fairy. Especially one without a care toward Fairy Laws.
Peter glanced to his Boys, nodding to them to come up and stand with him. They all looked to Tink with eager eyes and Peter held out a hand to Henry, pulling him up beside him. "Everyone," Peter said, "this is Tinkerbell."
The Boys all whispered in awe and Henry stared at Tinkerbell, entranced. He glanced to Peter and Peter grinned, his fingers still caught between Henry's. "She's a - "
"FAIRY!" Nibs shouted, pointing to Tink.
"Well, yeah," Peter said. "Obviously - "
"No! Peter, look!" Thomas shouted, pointing to the ball of golden Light.
Peter watched his Boys launch for it, breaking formation, and Peter had to remind himself that he'd broken character first. They all ran after the Light, which did the foolish thing and darted inside; though the room was lit enough that it wouldn't be as easy to see than out in the Dark, so perhaps it hadn't been foolish, but Peter saw it as foolish. Just to spite the Fairy, Peter released Henry's hand to jump after his Boys; Peter jumped ahead of them until he was Leading. Soon enough, Peter had leapt from the stone table and his hands had clasped around the Fairy; he would've fallen on his head, had the Dust off the Fairy not done a right job of messing his hand full of golden Pixie Dust.
Laughing, Peter was off the ground, suspended in mid-air, peeking his hands open to look at the Fairy that was spurting off and on in his hand. Tinkerbell, already at home, decided she'd had enough and shouted, in a rather scolding tone, "Peter. Let him go."
"It's a him, is he?" Peter asked, looking to her, upside-down. He smiled and peeked his fingers apart, letting the golden light (that was turning redder by the minute) paint his face. Peter looked at him curiously until finally, he opened his hands and released the Fairy. Instead of zipping away as Fairies usually did when Peter played with them, this one came close to his face and, while wagging a finger Peter could barely even see, gave him a right scolding that Peter merely laughed at, saying, "Well, it's nice to see you again, too, Terence."
Terence huffed, his Light flickering red-hot before turning a fond gold as he uncrossed his arms and shook Peter's finger that he held out. I'd like it much better if our meetings didn't start with you manhandling me.
"Yeah, well, and I'd like it much if our meetings didn't start with you flying in here like you own the place," Peter said, a humour in his tone, his eyes glittering good-naturedly. "And, just look at this mess you've made!"
You sound like a Mother, Peter.
"I do not!" Peter countered, looking at the mess of Dust that was all over him and his clothes. Chairs and Lost things began to soar as well and Peter groaned before throwing his bent arms behind his head, to which he kicked, flying over the heads of the awe-struck Boys.
"Peter ... You're flying!" Curly shouted.
"Isn't that a bit obvious?" Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No, Peter," Thomas said, grinning, "You're flying. You believe."
Peter swooped down close to Thomas. "Who said I didn't believe? Who said? I'll gut them."
"Of course you will, Peter," Tinkerbell said, rolling her eyes; she had a mind to know what Thomas meant. "Peter ... You've got happy thoughts again."
"Happy thoughts," Peter mused before he grinned and let out a rousing crow. "Oh, happy thoughts! Lovely thoughts!" Swooping down, he lifted one of the Boys from the ground and twirled him in the air. "Happy thoughts again!" Peter's smile fading when he looked to the Boys' face, to the knife in his hands. He began to float down from the air and his face fell along with it until his feet grazed the ground and he placed the Boy back down. Peter turned, looking to Tink. "Do you know?" He asked.
"About what?" Tinkerbell asked, glancing to the adults; they were really the only ones she'd had contact with while she was hiding away and they seemed the only ones to tell her without Peter doing so.
"About the War," Peter said, his hands limp at his sides, his feet back on the ground, a deflated look to him as his shoulders slumped. His hair still glittered with Dust yet his shoulders seemed to hold a weight he couldn't lift; Peter, Tinkerbell realised, was trapped, grounded by the pressing matters around him. "That is why you showed, isn't it? Why you came back?"
Tinkerbell looked to her feet, suddenly very thankful Peter didn't remember why she had been forced to leave him. No matter the amount of Fairy Laws she'd broken, there was one universal Law even she couldn't evade; and that was Banishment, and all its strings attached. Alas, Banishment only went as far as Peter's memory. As long as he didn't know he'd Banished Tinkerbell, there was no reason for her not to be allowed to stay. She glanced to Peter, almost taken aback by his other questions; she'd been so concerned of herself that she hadn't thought about his other topics of conversation.
"War?" She asked, her brow knitting.
"Yes," Peter said, and at once, Tinkerbell understood the darkened eyes, the bruised lip, the paled skin, the defeated slope of his shoulders and the look on his face, deep in his eyes. He was scared, terrified, but he had no idea why. "Felix ... He ... Well, not him, I don't know - "
Tinkerbell's eyes widened and she started forward. "Felix? I just spoke to Felix! He said - " Her words caught in her throat and it dawned on her, the pieces matched and continued to match. "Oh, god ... "
"What'd he say?" Peter's expression grew hard, a snarl curling his lip. Tinkerbell looked to his face, to his eyes, that sparked with an electricity that she could practically see the storm brewing inside of him; in fact, she could feel it, hear it ... The wind howled behind her and Tinkerbell whipped her head around, jumping back from the door as it slammed.
Peter, unaware of what he was doing, came forward, asking, spitting, "What did he say, Tink?"
Looking to his face, Tinkerbell pursed her lips. "Peter, if I'm going to tell you, I need you to take a breath and calm down."
Peter raised his eyebrows, held his arms out. "I most certainly am calm, Tink, I simply radiate calm right now - " The storm outside grew stronger, the rain coming down in thick sheets, " - now tell me what he said."
Tinkerbell shook her head; whether her stubborness was foolish or wise, you can be the judge fore Peter, always Peter, thought it was stupid on her part, she was holding back information, why wouldn't she tell him, and without knowing it, his eyes sparked again, the white lights strobing in his darkened irises and he said, in a rather dangerous tone, one that caused Tinkerbell's heart to cease beating for an excruciatingly long moment, "Tink, tell me."
Tinkerbell's mind tried to take her back to a different time, to a Lighter Peter, to when his voice was full of hurt and need; it was full of the same desperation as of now and before Tinkerbell could become stuck in the Past, she looked the animal in its stormy eyes and watched as a hand, fingers, found their way around Peter's own, tugged his eyes from the sparking grey clouds, until he glanced to the hand, to the face of the Boy, the Boy from the prochecy, and his face regained colour, lit, for a fleeting moment and he was lifted from the ground a few centimeters before he turned back to face Tinkerbell, his feet finding the ground again.
Taking a deep breath, the rain outside dripped to a low patter just as Peter looked to Tink's face with eyes amiss their sparks, but just as many clouds. "Fine. I'm calm," He sighed, looking to Henry's hand; he closed his eyes painfully and received a squeeze, a slight one, since Peter was strangling Henry's hand until it was white. "I'm ... calm. Tell me."
"He ... He was outside my Tree," She began, a bit Lost for words now that she was being asked, "at least I thought he was outside of it since the rest of the Boys were - "
" - Rest of the Boys?" Peter asked, thinking back to the Staked Boys whom had circled around him his last night in camp.
" - Yes," She sighed, shoulders falling a bit, "they had two others with them - two girls - one of them was screaming, like ... Like a Bird. The other was otherwise docile."
Peter nodded. "We know about them, I'm supposed to rescue them, some sort of trade - "
" - Not just some sort of trade," Neal interuppted, giving Peter a rather sharp look. Peter looked to him, about to retort that Neal was in no way a part of their conversation, when Ted said, moving his hands in the mimic of a bird's wings, "The Wendy Bird, is it? The Wendy and Tiger Lily."
Tinkerbell glanced to the Light that was Terence; his Light had gone from gold to a rather dank shade of grey in a matter of seconds. Wait, wait, a trade? He asked, turning to Peter.
"Yeah, I'll probably head tomorrow on that," Peter said, his eyebrow knitting; his thumb rubbed over Henry's knuckles, unaware of his fingers' actions, his mind too set on the matter at hand. He looked back up, ducking his head slightly to look at Tink past Terence's rather obnoxious Light. "You were saying?"
Terence's Light sparked and he came close to Peter's face, arms out in exasperation. I'm still here, you know!
"I do know and you're positively annoying," Peter told Terence, looking over his small acorn hat to Tinkerbell's blue eyes.
"He said," She began just as Terence shouted, Just because I'm small does not mean you can belittle me!
Peter looked to the Fairy before he raised an eyebrow. "But you are small," Peter said, lifting a hand, "and so I can do this." Peter swatted the Fairy out of the way and looked to Tinkerbell expectantly. "Go on."
Taking a deep breath, Tinkerbell rushed the words out because she was afraid she would be interuppted again and the words were about to explode inside of her and she couldn't hold them in, not any longer, and so, in a flush of breath, Tinkerbell said, "He said he's come to take what's rightfully his." Terence, whom had ceased in his spinning fit from Peter's flick, looked at Tink and shook his head. You could've let that down a tiny bit easier, Tink. Just saying.
Peter's eyes locked on Tink's, his fingers tightening on Henry's hand. That sounded familiar, it rung a bell in his mind until it emitted warning chimes so loud Peter's head nearly spun; it terrified him completely, down to his core, but he couldn't recall, he didn't remember anything but those words. He'd heard them plenty of times, a million times, from the words of men with greedy hearts, a Father with a lust for Youth, and the mouth of someone he'd thought was there soley for him, who had taken him from danger to keep him out of War, not to throw him into another.
Peter came back around when Henry made a little noise at his side and Peter released his hand, glancing to Henry's, not having noticed the pressure he'd been inflicting. Peter glanced to Henry's face apologetically before looking to Tinkerbell, knowing everyone was expecting a reaction - something out of him - and yet, here he stood, frozen. "That doesn't sound like Felix," He finally said though his mind screamed every other thing because this was too obvious, what he was saying, and he knew it was but he was afraid to say anything else and to be wrong.
" ... That's the thing, Peter, it didn't sound like Felix then either. His voice ... It wasn't his. It wasn't his," Tinkerbell said, shaking her head. "It couldn't be. Peter, he's your second-in command. He wouldn't - he just wouldn't - "
" - Well, he did," Peter said, sharply. "He betrayed me. And he isn't my second-in command anymore."
Tinkerbell looked to Peter's eyes and she knew he couldn't remember all of his other betrayals, he couldn't remember his past second-in commands. There were so many that they were sure to tally up; he should've known, should've been aware, and yet, he didn't know, didn't remember. Despite her efforts, he was back in the Dark; she'd Lost everything for nothing.
No. She'd Lost everything for Peter and she had been completely fine with it. Until now; until now, it mattered and it hadn't before.
"What did he do?" Tink asked, quietly. Terence's Light flashed grey and he perched on Tink's shoulder, whispered to her in his quietest voice, No, Tink, don't -
Peter's tongue flicked over his lips and he closed his eyes tightly for a long drawn-out moment before shaking his head. "I can't tell you."
Tinkerbell ignored Terence's better judgement; Peter used to be able to tell her anything. "Of course you can."
"No," Peter said, tightly, "Tink. I can't tell you." The desperation in Peter's voice caused his words to crack apart until they were tinkling shards, broken pieces, unspoken pain given a voice, and Peter didn't understand what it meant to be betrayed even if he had felt it happen to him more than it ever had an adult.
He may've been innocent but his Heart wasn't.
...
Peter's birthday was forgotten. In fact, for years to come, Peter had deliberately made up a new birthday so as not to remember. And yet, despite his best efforts, Peter was forced to remember every night, with dreams of raging waves and a ship flung under the sea during a storm, an island of survivors, Natives, Beasts and Fairies; he would wake up screaming, sobbing, and his brother would run in because his Mother couldn't hear Peter's screams over her own. Holding Peter, Benny would ask him what his dream was of and Peter would say, tears in eyes, his throat tight, and he would tell Benny and Benny would sit and listen until it became too much to bear and he had to leave so he would reignite the night-lights that had blown out with Peter's cries and reshut the window that had been flung open and Benny reassured him that it was all just make-believe and he was fine, nothing could get him here.
His brother's reassurances may've sounded strong at first but when he left and could no longer keep them at the front of Peter's mind, Peter began to wander. His mind began to see what was really there, what was put off as make-believe. His shadow sat at his bed, moved to the wall, beside the flickering of his night-light and he looked to it, reached out for it, and it moved to the window, beckoned for him.
Peter followed it and sat at the window, glanced behind him before he pulled the window up and open. "What is it?" He whispered.
Look, it pointed out the window to the stars. There. Do you see it?
Peter looked and gazed at the constellations. His eyes caught the glimmer, the flicker, the wink of the brightest of the stars. "I think so. The bright one?"
Yes. It shines bright for those who belong there, you know. You belong there, Peter. The shadow turned its blank eyes to face Peter and Peter looked out at the star, at its blinking form, his hands beneath his chin to hold him upright, his feet kicking up and down behind him.
"Is it like my dream?" Peter asked, glancing sideways at his shadow.
Yes, quite. It's everything you've ever dreamt of, Peter, and better. You've created it, The shadow looked to Peter and glanced back to the star. Would you like to go there?
Peter sighed. "I don't know. It's quite scary in dreams. Are there night-lights there?"
So many night-lights, Peter.
"Are there Mothers there? Brothers? ... Fathers?'"
There are no grown-ups, Peter, not if you go now.
"Who will tell me stories then?"
You can create your own stories, Peter; go on adventures every day.
"That sounds wonderful," Peter said, but he glanced over his shoulder; he could hear his brother slam his fists through the wall, bloody his knuckles. Peter bit his lip, chewed on it. "I don't think I can go now, though. Benny and Mother need me."
His shadow's head snapped toward Peter. Peter, they don't need you, they don't want you. Neverland needs you.
Peter turned to his shadow and smiled. "Neverland? Is that what it's called?"
Yes, you named it.
"After Father's ship," Peter said, smiling, leaning his cheek down on his elbows, eyes fluttering shut. "The Never Land."
The shadow looked to the sleeping form of Peter then to the star; it blinked before it blazed like a beacon in the night, and all the other Stars flickered with it, blinking along to the tune of pipe song that floated through the air and transported Peter to Neverland; but not the way the shadow should've. Peter went by dream and by dream, Peter would have to leave.
He played and adventured and flew with the Birds; he hopped off of cliffs, dove under waves, laughed and laughed and laughed for the less than happier days he'd had. He made up for those by make-believing things better; until he was called away by his brother's voice.
"Peter! What are you doing?!"
Peter turned away from the circle of Fairies around him as he turned his face to the rising sun in Neverland; an indention between Peter's eyebrows appeared and he looked up, confused. "Benny?"
A hand clutched Peter's shoulder, whipped him around, and Peter was no longer in Neverland, but he could hear the Fairies' calls for him from the blinking star amid the constellations enlaid in the sky; his brother had lifted him from the floor where he'd been sleeping, both hands newly bandaged but blushed fiery red near the knuckles, and he shook Peter, anger and fear glowing in his eyes. "Peter, what have I told you about this window?"
Peter glanced to his bare feet, wiggled his toes anxiously, unaccustomed to the cool boards of wood in contrast to the warm blistering sand of the shores of Neverland; he said, glancing up at his brother through his bangs, " ... To keep it shut."
"And, why is it - " Benny released Peter's shoulders to slam the window down so hard the noise caused Peter to jump, " - that every time I tell you that, you open it?"
Peter could've lied to his brother, said it was stuffy in his room or his blankets were too heavy on him or even he was too restless to sleep. Instead, Peter said, "But I didn't open it, Benny. He did," and he pointed to the darkest corner of his room.
Benny followed Peter's finger and sighed when he looked to the corner. "Peter, I've told you - it's not real."
"You tell him that," Peter mumbled as his brother turned back to him. He took in Peter's appearance; the scratches on his arms and legs, the dirt behind his ears, the last of the paint that had been coated on his face and upper arms.
"What is that?" Benny asked, pointing to the painted markings. Peter glanced to them, shrugging.
"It's war paint," Peter said, smiling, eyebrows high and eyes eager. "Me and the natives played a game - "
"Peter, not this again - "
" - But, we did," Peter said as Benny ran a bandaged hand through his hair tiredly. "It was them against me, which I suppose isn't very fair for them, since I know where everything is. I beat them, of course, and then we went back to their camp and - "
" - Peter," Benny interuppted. "Please."
Peter blinked as Benny grabbed Peter's hand, tugged him along to the washroom where Benny grabbed a cloth, ran it under the water, folded it with his bare fingers that shook, and he placed the wet cloth to Peter's face, washed away the paint, the dirt, the memory of the place he went when he dreamt.
"Is Mother up?" Peter asked.
" ... Yes," Benny said after a moment of hesitation. "I don't want you to go to her, though. The doctors are coming in today to speak with her while I'm away."
"Away where?" Peter asked, trying to meet his brother's gaze which Benny avoided expertly.
"I told you," Benny said, wetting a new cloth to place over Peter's scratches. "I'm going away by the King's order; one of Father's friends requested me to the calvary."
"Calvary," Peter said, wrinkling his nose.
"Yes, the King's calvary," Benny said. "You know what that means."
"Extra rations," They both said together, sharing a rare smile. Benny's brow then furrowed and he said, "While I'm away, I want you to make me a promise."
"What sort of promise?" Peter asked, going still.
"A pinky promise," and Benny held out his pinky.
Peter lifted his pinky slowly, swallowing hard.
"I want you to promise me you'll stay up in your room when the doctors come," Benny said. "You won't talk to them; you don't even have to answer the door. You just stay in your room and leave only for food and to wash, alright?"
Peter's brow dipped. "Why?"
"It doesn't matter why," Benny said, wringing his pinky with his brother's before taking his hand to lead him back to his room. He tucked him back in his bed, relit the night-lights, and gave Peter a pointed look. "And do not open that window. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," Peter replied, used to Benny's sterness; he'd told Peter plenty of stories of little boys whom fell from stories-high windows but Peter hadn't believed them simply because they weren't interesting to him. "When are you leaving?"
"Not for a few days."
" ... You will come back, won't you?"
"Of course I will," Benny said, forcing a smile, sitting on the edge of Peter's bed. He gave Peter's hair a ruffle, his fingers latching to something in his hair. He tugged it and Peter winced, turning his head so that Benny could see the twisted tuff of hair braided around the quill of the feather. Benny stared at the eagle feather and twisted in his fingers, disbelief in his eyes.
"The Natives gave it to me," Peter said, watching Benny's face curiously; he smiled, grinned, before saying, "They call me Soaring Eagle." He puffed out his chest, holding his breath, glancing to Benny expectantly. He let out his breath after a long while, asking, "Don't you like it?"
"Of course," Benny said and Peter turned his head so that Benny's fingers left the feather and braid alone. He sighed and tucked Peter back in before he stood, ran the bandage of his hand across his face. "I'm going to go downstairs. Just yell if you need anything."
Benny began to move for the door and the minute his back was turned, Peter could already see them, with their blank eyes and their fanged mouths. "Wait," Peter called and Benny stopped, sighed, and turned back around.
"What is it?"
"Could you ... Stay in here? With me?" Peter asked and Benny's first thought was Aren't you a bit old for that, Peter, but he didn't say that, instead he sighed and nodded, nudged Peter for him to scoot closer to the wall and pulled the blanket around the both of them. Peter smiled, whispered, "Thank you," before he curled into his older brother's side and Benny nodded, staring up at the ceiling and the flickering, darting shadows, his fingers once again at the feather in Peter's hair.
Benny had one of his worst sleeps and Peter had one of his best.
oh my god this is so long
and the backstories unnnf feelings
I might not have school tomorrow because the winds will make it like -15
but my school sucks so they'll probably be like lol screw you you're still coming to school
so I'm conflicted I have done nothing in these two weeks of Break but write and cry because feelings
school's going to interfere like damn
BUT I will still post on Sundays and keep to the ouat schedule (depending on what school does to me)
You're all lovely and wonderful and I want to thank you all for tHE 133 REVIEWS, 57 FOLLOWS, AND 41 FAVOURITES LIKE HOLY WOW I LOVE YOU GUYS AND ADORE YOU ALL TO DEATH.