36. Magpie

They spoke on the way, regardless. Peter and Penn. Not much, but they did speak. They didn't talk about Beverly or their conflicting opinions on her strength of character. That would have been too controversial a topic.

And Peter could tell there was dissonance between the child and her father as well, without the need of verbal confirmation. Willa's gloved hands waved in the breeze, closing and opening, yearning for something to hold. Penn kept his own hands stuffed within the depths of his pockets. The fabric of his coat walled around his neck.

"Say, how come you have that accent?"

"Sir?"

Penn cast a fleeting glance to the side, in Peter Lake's direction. The flap of his hat couldn't conceal the ghostly pallor of his eyes. The drizzle of frost that now swayed between them could have very well been coming out of those irises.

"You said you were found by fishermen as a baby. Americans. You've spent all your life here. You've never been to Ireland, I wager."

"No," said Peter. "I haven't. I had never left New York until yesterday."

"Mhm." Penn licked his lips and reiterated his question: "How come you have an accent, then?"

Twenty years in Pearly Soames' company had done the trick. Fifteen-year-old Peter had no vernacular to begin with. John spoke a certain way, but each orphanage packaged up a different breed of the English language. And every sound had led to his own. And he hadn't really cared or noticed, until he met Pearly.

"Well, I've been around lots of folks… and most of them just happened to be Irish."

Because when Pearly found him that day, Peter had stuttered. He had stumbled upon his own tongue. He had searched for clarity in his voice and realized he never had any to begin with.

"So, you were raised among the Irish? Irish immigrants?"

"I… No. I've lived among them for most of my life, but they've never raised me. They were just…" Thieves. Murderers. Wolves. "I was raised by an Indian."

"Ah."

He had earned his coins singing. But he was no singer. He could hardly speak properly. He croaked… like a magpie. That's what Pearly had called him.

"He was one of the fishermen. Is one of the fishermen."

"What's his name?"

"John. Humpstone John. He took care of me when I was a child."

"Mhm."

And what do magpies do? Magpies steal. The gold twirls in their beady black eyes. Gold enthralls them. It's an obsession. And he was obsessed, in that instant. And his eyes were black.

"I've spent most of my life going in and out of places. In and out of people's homes. But I have always considered him my… you know, my father."

"Mhm." Penn nodded. Listened.

Magpies aren't singers. They're thieves. He was a thief. He knew, at long last, what he was.

At least… he thought he knew. He was convinced, for the longest time, that Pearly had opened his eyes to what was real. That, in a twisted, macabre way, he had saved him. And now, he was repulsed by the very idea. Pearly never saved him. He manipulated him. And this was his very first manipulation. A most subtle, and yet a most permanent poison that he poured, drop by drop, into Peter's body: this voice. This accent.

When Pearly leaned over him that fateful day, they had tormented him, these sounds coming out of his mouth. It was one of the things, maybe the thing, that finally led him to acknowledge just how lost he was. That haphazard mixture of accents, poisoning his tongue. Strangling him. Preventing him from ever making a sound that could, or would, provoke respect. Attention. Had he tried to cry for help, he would have found no chords to strike. He forgot how to speak that day. He had discovered shame.

And in return for this, Pearly gave him direction. Addresses. Names. People. And an accent. A real one.

He had hypnotized his ears, stolen his voice, and given him a new one. Pearly Soames gave him his voice.

And now, Peter Lake was stuck with it for the rest of his life. He had tried to change it. He had tried to soften the pronunciation of his R's and repress the musical curve of his sentences. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't just change the way he spoke. He wasn't a child anymore.

"I like the way you speak," said Willa, some time later.

"Oh."

"I mean it."

"I know, heh, it's just… Well, thanks."

"The way you said 'raised,' earlier. 'Rey-sd.'" She laughed. "I like your accent. I think it's neat."

He smiled. "Thanks, Willa."

Pearly Soames gave him a voice. Something irreplaceable. Something he couldn't sell, replace, or destroy, unless he actively chose to stop speaking altogether. He'd slithered part of himself into Peter's soul, his brain, maybe his heart, as well. And now he was fated to remain there. It was terrifying. He couldn't outrun this part of Pearly… just like how Beverly couldn't outrun her illness.

I like the way you speak.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, if there's anyone here today. So... yeah.

These are the sort of chapters I enjoy writing the most - Peter looking at the "City of Justice" banner, or Beverly playing the piano, etc. I just start random conversations and point out random facts to find some significance behind them. It gives me the freedom to linger on these details. Details that are not even pointed out in the film itself. In this case, I chose to focus on Peter Lake's accent.

Despite the fact that Peter has lived in the United States all his life, he has an Irish accent in the movie and no one ever acknowledges it. In the case of Beverly, who also has an accent (British), they just throw a line that says that she was born in London and never mention it again. But with Peter, they don't even do that. And, yes, Colin Farrell is Irish and has a very thick accent, but he has done American accents before.

So I decided to point this out and, of course, try to find some symbolic significance behind it and give myself an excuse to be dramatic XD. So I ended up with this: the accent is the result of Pearly's influence and the one thing Peter cannot run away from. So, in a way, he will always be tethered to the man who corrupted him. And that's just that. It's the way things are.

Another chapter I'm very proud of. Again, sorry for rambling, and thank you for checking out my fanfic. It means the world to me.