"That's the last of them," Wendy said, defeated. She slammed the last book shut and slumped back in her chair. It was their second day of searching in this mansion and it had yielded nothing to them. They had spent their time in a cramped, dusty library. The shelves and walls her made of dark wood and there were stacks and stacks of books shoved in the small room. High above them, thin windows let in bright light.
Wendy wished to be outside and lift her face to the fall sun, the last dregs of warmth before the Enchanted Forest fully plunged into winter. Pan told her that in the south the winter would be milder, warmed by the sea, but it would still be harsh. Much harsher than London winters, but those were a distant memory, warmed over by pleasant remembrances of Christmas and warm desserts. Even her first winter in the Enchanted Forest felt like a long time ago. She wondered briefly if she would have to spend Christmas with Pan, for she had already accepted that she would spend her nineteenth birthday with him. She guessed that she probably would, but the thought didn't make her feel as hollow as she would have expected. She would miss her brothers terribly, but perhaps she could pester Pan into buying her half a dozen new novels for the occasion.
"This is the seventh mansion," he said without looking up from the book. Pan had been on the same book for the last few hours while she had made it through three; his dark circles were getting worse by the day and she couldn't bring herself to bother him about it. "Did you expect to find the perfect spell so soon?"
"It's been six months and we've made practically no progress," she complained. It felt like forever since she had last seen Baelfire.
"There are infinite amounts of spells and incantations and magical objects that exist. To be able to find one very specific, very rare, very ancient, very dangerous spell so quickly is near impossible. I wouldn't worry about it," he said. She tilted her head to consider him. What he had said verged on comforting.
"Fine, then if there's nothing here, let's go back to the inn. I'm tired and we have to ride early," she said as she began to search for her cloak. Pan put down the book and stretched lazily.
"Not just yet. I want to check on one thing here." Pan slowly got up from his seat. He swung his cloak around his shoulders and brushed past her out of the library. She hurried after him out in the hall. The halls were made of the same dark wood as the library. Ornate designs adorned the beams above them and the bannisters that lead up and down the floors. The mansion was not sprawling as the others had been, it was tall and dark, rising above the forest that it was hidden in. Each floor was small and cramped, with winding stairs leading them up and down.
"What do you want to check on?" she asked as she caught up to him. Pan was just as forthcoming with information as he had been previously and they still kept up their daily conversations about spells and nightly discussions about novels and Gavin, but there was a hesitancy about him. Ever since their conversation a month ago before the illusion mansion, he seemed to watch his words even more carefully than usual. Wendy suspected that she hadn't given him the reassurance that he had wanted that day.
It was strange that she almost—well, she didn't regret what she said. She had told him the truth and she wouldn't change her answer now, but she wished she could have reassured him.
"The Cloak of the Three Fates," he told her over his shoulder. He took a quick turn onto the stairs and took them two at a time. Wendy struggled to keep up. "I'm quite certain it's here. No thieves have an interest in Gold's book collection, which is why I really don't have any way of knowing where any specific spell is, but they did have an interest in his magical items. It's rumoured that this particular mansion happens to house the Cloak of the Fates. They were—"
"Oracles and goddesses who could tell the future and were in control of the Threads of Life. Clothes spun the thread, Lachesis measured it and Atropos cut it. They were also known as the Moirai to the Greeks, but as the Fates to the English, or Parcae to the Romans," she said quickly.
He paused a moment. "No one likes a know-it-all," he told her, a grin ghosting over his mouth.
He continued up the stairs and she followed. He quickly turned onto a floor and made his way down another hallway that looked exactly the same as the last. Abruptly, he swung into a doorway into a large room. It was luxuriously decorated with lush rugs and leather chairs. A large window directly across from them looked out on the forest below and let in the same bright light. Shelves and shelves of magical looking objects covered the walls. They glowed and glimmered as if the mansion hadn't been abandoned for decades.
"Oh my—"
"None of these things are real," Pan told her quickly She turned and quirked an eyebrow at him.
"How do you know?"
"I know my brother."
Wendy's mouth twisted into a frown. "That's not much of an explanation."
Pan turned and began to feel along the empty spaces of the wall, between the shelves. He tapped and then listened and tapped again. Almost reluctantly, he began, "It's a trick he learned from my grandfather. He— would you help me?" She went to the opposite wall and started tapping as Pan had. "My grandfather was a very, very wealthy merchant. He always had lots of things in his house that he traded. Most of it went quickly, but there were some items that he couldn't travel with because they were just so expensive. He had to have buyers come to his home to see them. He would hide them in rooms with lots of replaceable trinkets. If robbers claim, they would take the fakes and not even look for the real items. Rather clever of him." Wendy was silent as he spoke. Pan seldom spoke of his family and she didn't want to stop him now. The rational part of her knew that she shouldn't care about Pan's past, but she still found herself wanting to know more about it, about him. "My mother figured this out, that he was hiding things in the walls. If you press the right part, a compartment should open." He paused for a long time. "When we would visit, which was not often, she'd show us this. It all seemed so magical, so wondrous. She was wondrous, I suppose," he finished softly.
She turned and glanced at him. His back was to her. Perhaps, the exhaustion had finally worn him down and he simply didn't have the energy anymore to be careful with his words, to hold back from her. She was slightly relieved that he was speaking more freely. Only because her curiosity was abated. No other reason.
For so long, Pan had simply been her enemy. She hadn't spent much time wondering about what he was like before Neverland. All that had mattered on Neverland was that he was awful in the present. The past didn't matter. But now… he was her partner and it felt almost strange not to know about his past.
She turned back to the task at hand, knocking and tapping on the wood. Eventually, Pan found the compartment that he was looking for. The compartment slid out of the wall smoothly as if it had just been oiled. It was a large metal container with a complicated lock on it. Wendy wasn't sure if he would have been able to break it. Before she could open her mouth, Pan placed his hand on the lock and it glowed green. The lock crumpled in on itself.
"I suppose we're wasting magic on things that may not be there," she commented.
"It's my magic to waste," he retorted, no edge in his voice. He swung the door open and they both peered inside. It looked to be just a very ordinary black cloak, nothing unusual. Wendy had always imagined it to be a sparkling royal blue, glittering and twinkling with all the wonderful lives of people all over the world.
Pan reached inside, grabbing at the cloak quickly but as soon as his fingers touched the cloak, he went completely still.
XXX
"It's my magic to waste." Ignoring Wendy's reluctance, he swung the door open and they both peered inside at the cloak. It was wool, slightly worn, a navy colour that was beginning to fade. It was not how he had imagined it would be.
He reached inside and as his fingers brushed against the fabric, the world folded in on itself. He was pulled right out of his body as he flew threw darkness. As quickly as he had been pulled away, he came crashing back.
He was back in Neverland. He recognized the Lost Boys encampment, knew it like the back of his hand. But… he was not himself. Instead, he was watching himself from afar, dancing in the firelight, drunk. He looked down at his hands and they were not his own. They were small and brown.
He didn't understand, didn't have control over his movements. He moved, but he did not choose to move. He found himself walking away form the campfire and the party. He made his way into one of the tents. It was cramped and cold and damp. It was, quite honestly, squalid. The bed in the tent was just a pile of tattered sheets. He crawled into them and wrapped himself up.
And then he began to weep. His body shook with sobs as he remembered a life that was not his own. He remembered parents, loving and kind, but incredibly poor. His parents struggled to put food in his mouth and clothes on his back. He had been jealous back then; he had wanted more. One day, a young man had come to town, offering a rich and bountiful life. He had wanted it so desperately so he agreed. He had followed that man to Neverland. The first few weeks had been fun, but he slowly began to realize how violent the island was. He missed his parents and their love and kindness. He wanted his mother to hug him again and he wanted his father to tuck him in at night.
He wept bitterly for a long, long time. He let the misery wash over him and wished he had never come to Neverland, never met Peter Pan.
Peter was pulled out of this body and slammed into another one. He was still in Neverland. This time it was day, the sun blazed down on the fielded area of the encampment. He had a wooden sword in his hand and he felt proud to have it. Perhaps the other Lost Boys might let him play with them.
He approached a group of older boys who all stood in a circle, play fighting, laughing and jostling each other. He heard himself ask to please join. He had a sword now and he excitedly showed them his new prized possession.
Instead, the boys turned and sneered at him. They knocked the sword out of his hands and pushed him to the was a kick to his abdomen and then to his head and then after that it was difficult to tell just what was going on. All there was was searing pain and fear.
Just as quickly as he had been put into this body, he was unceremoniously dropped into another. This time he was running through the forest in the middle of the night. Trees and vines whipped past him as he ran for his life. His lungs burned and his knees were weak, but he pushed forward, running as fast as he possibly could.
He could distantly hear something whooshing behind him. At this he picked up his pace even more. A cold terror gripped him as he jumped over rocks and careened through the forest paths. He had to leave this place. He couldn't be here anymore. He had to get home.
He soon burst out of the forest onto the beach. The sand was harder to run in and he began to slow down. His movements were clumsy and desperate as he got to the water's edge. He threw himself into the water and desperately began to swim. He hadn't been taught how to swim so he just tried his best not to drown. Over the sounds of the splash of the water, he could hear the distant whooshing growing louder and louder. His arms flailed as he tried to get more distance between him and the thing that terrified him the most.
Suddenly, a cold hand clamped down on him and he was pulled from the water. He was pulled up, high, high over the beach. He sailed through the air over the forest. He desperately looked back and saw the Shadow — his Shadow—dragging him back towards the camp. He struggled in the air, desperate to not go back to him.
As quickly as he had been pulled into the air, he was dropped back into the Lost Boys camp. He crumpled onto the ground. He could hear himself screaming, begging. When he looked up, he was before the throne. In the throne, sat Peter Pan—himself. He grinned down with a malicious smirk. His eyes were an unnerving blue. This was what he had been so terrified. This boy king petrified him.
"You've tried to escape," Pan observed coolly.
"Please, please, it was a mistake. I—I won't—" he stammered.
Pan raised his hand. "Save your breath. You deserve no mercy."
He flung himself onto the ground, weeping. "Please, please," he muttered. He didn't even know what he was begging for, just not this.
"I don't tolerate disloyalty," Pan drawled. His tone was icy and each word sent a shock through his body. This was not a human.
He continued to beg as Pan stood from his throne. He pleaded and pleaded on his hands and knees, but Pan remained unconvinced. With one flash of his hand, green power came sailing towards him and then there was darkness.
Soon, he was slammed into another body. He was again before the throne. This time it was day and there was a crowd surrounding him. Pan stood before him. This time though, he was not afraid. He stood before Pan, defiant. He stood accused of murder, but he was unrepentant.
"You've killed two of your fellow Lost Boys," Pan said, speaking to the crowd. "Do you know your punishment?"
Peter realized who this was. This was Terrence.
He narrowed his eyes and he thought of what he was going to say. It was hilarious, brilliant. It would put Pan and that bitch Wendy Darling in her place. Even that fucking whimpering son of a bitch Gavin.
"Yes. I get to go live with Wendy."
The crowd erupted into laughter. He was incredibly pleased with himself. He saw Pan's face twist in anger and he was ecstatic. No one was able to get a rise out of Pan. He could die happy now. He would be celebrated as a martyr.
"Enough!" Pan cried, silencing the crowd. Green light flowed from Pan's hands and across to Terrence. It wrapped around his feet and then snaked up the rest of his body. He had not expected this. He had expected a swift death. He terror grew in the pit of his stomach.
He was lifted up, high above the crowd. The magic solidified into a cold, slimy snake. It twisted and tightened around him and he couldn't get a breath in. He struggled against it, desperately. He had been wrong. He feared death. He feared Pan.
"Gavin was not at fault. But you, Terrence, murdered two Lost Boys. For that, you know you must die." He heard Pan's words distantly. He wanted to cry out. He wanted his mother. He wanted to go home. He wanted—
His neck snapped and he was back in that inky darkness again.
He was shoved into another body. He found himself staring down a deep, dark well. Tall trees surrounded him and and he could feel the tingle of magic close by. Blinking, he stared up into his own face and with shock, realized when this was.
Pan stood back and looked down at the well, proud. He stood there, in the forest of Storybrooke, looking triumphant. He glowed in anticipation of his victory. He felt his own heart glow and he was also proud of his friend, his leader. Pan never fails, he thought to himself.
"Is that the last of it?" he asked Pan.
Pan shook his head. "One last thing," he said. "I need the heart of the thing I love the most."
He searched his mind for a moment and a sinking sense of dread crushed Peter. "Are we going after the Dark One then?"
Pan shook his head. "You know, love doesn't always have to be romantic or familial," he explained, his words smooth and calm. Peter knew what was about to come next, but Pan's voice almost lulled him into security. "Love can also include fealty, loyalty… friendship."
His eyes widened and he took a step back, as if he had been pushed. He panic rose in him like bile as he understood what Pan meant. Pan meant to kill him, to take his heart. All the decades he had spent loyal to him had finally culminated in this.
Betrayal was a small word in the face of what Pan was about to do.
Peter felt Felix's heart shattering as Pan tore it out. Pan held his heart out, still beating, a deep burgundy. His heart had been Pan's for many, many years now, but he never would have imagined this.
"Felix, you have served me well and will continue to do so," Pan drawled, looking hungrily at the heart.
He opened and closed his mouth, searching for words, but found none.
How could Pan do this? Pan loved Felix. This was not what love was supposed to be.
Pan clenched his hand and the heart, his heart, began to disintegrate into dust and he felt himself, Felix, disintegrate with it.
Peter was dragged through more lives. Lives filled with sorrow and fear. Lives that were so incredibly short, so steeped in pain. Neverland was a place of violence and terror. It was not a paradise. It was a prison. He whipped through lives of Lost Boys he didn't remember and some that he did. The years passed through him, draining him.
He saw flashes of the place he had once yearned for, soaked in blood and engulted in horror. He saw bits and pieces of all the lives he had touched. Pan was always in them, whether in the centre or the background; a lingering, cold, icy terror. He was terrified of the Boy King of Neverland, ruthless and merciless, who delighted in the fear of others, relished in their pain.
Distantly, he understood now why Wendy hated him so much.
He was dumped unceremoniously into a small body. He was alone and fragile, but he knew there was someone for him, his protector, his brother. He looked up to find himself. He instantly recognized who he was… Rumple. This memory was back when he had been called Malcolm, when he had been mortal.
He beamed up at his big brother. They were alone in this world but at least they had each other. Malcolm had a tight grip on his hand as he led him through a forest to the water's edge.
"I don't want you anymore," Malcolm said abruptly.
"What?" He felt tears spring to his eyes and he grabbed onto his brother's hand, desperately clinging to him.
"I want to be free. I want to have fun. I don't want to worry about you," Malcolm explained. Malcolm glowered down at him and for the first time, he wondered if his brother did not like him. He did not have the word, but he realized what he was. Peter was able to name it: burden.
"Please, I'll be good. I promise," he sobbed. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he felt his heart hammer in his chest. He loved his brother so much. He tried to be good, tried to help. What had he ever done to make his brother hate him?
"I don't care. I don't want you," Malcom said. His voice was tight. His was so distant in that moment.
"Please!" he screamed. He flailed and tried to hold onto Malcolm.
"I've found a place where I can be free and I won't have to worry about you," Malcolm explained. "I just have to accept it." Suddenly, a green glow seeped out of the surrounding area. Rumple didn't understand where it had come from, but it terrified him. He shrieked as it wrapped around his brother.
The green glow enveloped Malcom and he glowed with a blinding light. Rumple covered his eyes and cowered, waiting for this all to be over. Perhaps all this was a dream and when he opened his eyes, things would be better.
Soon, the light disappeared and he opened his eyes again. It had not been a dream. Malcolm stood before him, looking much the same, but also different somehow. He couldn't place just what it was. His brother looked down at him and he wondered if he might be an ant that was about to get stepped on. Malcolm's eyes were now an unearthly blue and he struggled to maintain eye contact.
Malcolm leaned down and grinned a mean grin. "I won't miss you, Rumple. Not one bit." And with that he disappeared.
Peter was left on the beach. He crumpled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees. He sobbed and wailed. He was so small and so alone. His heart was breaking in his chest. Even though he did not understand what Malcolm had done, he knew it had been wrong. But he still missed his brother. He still wanted his brother. He wanted to hear his laugh again and have him tuck him into bed.
He lay on that beach for what seemed like forever. Soon, he stilled and his sobs turned into weeping. He sat up, his eyes filled with tears and his vision blurry. He got up on shaky knees and started walking into a new and lonely world.
Peter was ripped out of this body and then slammed back into his own. He stumbled backwards, hitting his head on a shelf. His arms flailed wildly as he tried to regain his sense. The world was spinning, it was just a blur of dark wood and burgundy rugs. He felt himself careening forwards. He fell onto his hands and knees and wretched on the floor. The vomit burned his throat and tears clouded his vision.
Distantly, he could hear Wendy calling his name. He felt her place her hands on him. She rubbed soothing circles on his back, murmuring his name. He wanted to throw himself into her arms.
"Peter," she was saying as his hearing finally settled. "What happened?" He sat up on his knees. She gently placed a canteen of water in his hands and he took a large gulp.
What happened? How could he answer that? How could he begin to tell her all he had experienced, all that he had done?
His sins were no longer shapeless, abstract. He had solidified into a monster.
He batted away her comforting hands. He didn't deserve them.
"We've got to burn that thing," he choked out.
"What?" she asked. "What did you see?"
"I didn't see anything!" he lied. He struggled to his feet and began making his way to the door, but his feet were still clumsy and the world was still on a tilt. Wendy was up beside him, catching him by the elbow. She guided him into a chair and sat him down.
Her voice and hands were gentle as she checked for anything physically wrong with him. He knew she wouldn't find anything. Not anything physical, at least.
"What happened?" she repeated softly. He looked at her. Her face was open, the look of concern in her eyes sincere. He did not deserve that look, those gentle hands, that soft, melodic voice.
"Nothing," he told her. His voice cracked when he said it.
"I know you saw something and you can't just ignore everything that makes you feel bad about what you've done," she told him.
He stood abruptly from the chair and pushed past her. He couldn't deal with this. Not now, perhaps not ever. "You don't know what I saw!" he yelled.
"No, but I can see you!" she yelled right back. She slipped in front of him and held up her hands. He stopped just short of knocking into her. "Peter," she began. He wanted to melt into her. The sound of his name on her lips was liquid gold through him. "Just tell me what happened."
No. He wasn't sure if he had thought it or said it, but from the look on Wendy's face made him he had actually ended up yelling it. He couldn't do this. He did not want to find the words to articulate all the horrors he'd committed. He didn't want to have her look at him when her kind brown eyes were filled with horror, disgust. He wanted to just not feel anything.
"Burn that fucking thing," he told her. He pushed passed her and swished out of the room, down the stairs and out of the mansion. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he needed to get away.
