There was once a story among the Lost Boys long before she'd arrived in Neverland. One that stated that when they could no longer hear the sound of Pan's pipes, they were no longer a Lost Boy themselves. It'd been followed by mere laughter and an exchange of teasing as to who would be kicked amongst them first, but now it seemed like a looming reality.

A reality that had plagued Pan himself. What was once a beautiful sound–an instrument that Peter had taken great pride in playing once before–now sounded as if he were just beginning his practice lessons all over again. His pipes bounced through the gang's underground cavern out of tune in a screeching shrill, coming from the hole in the wall where he likely made his nest–obscured by a curtain and lit by candlelight. A slim shadow cast over the wall, larger and unnerving, harboring the slightest of a personality on its own as if glaring.

Goosebumps rippled across her skin. Wendy felt frantic, trapped, but there was nothing she could do to alleviate the pressure in her chest, to distract herself from the fact that he had forgotten about her; that he wasn't Peter Pan at all.

Prince of Darkness–Runner had called him.

It is much better to walk with a friend through the dark hand in hand. Jester was right. He was a tad over eager and sometimes his affability seemed like a well-practiced act, but somehow, she couldn't bring herself to doubt his loyalty.

Regardless, she did not seek out the darkness herself. She emerged from a small chamber to pad into the main area of the underground home and looked around herself only fleetingly. Her steps were soundless, purposely so, wet hair draped over her shoulder from the solid hour she'd spent scrubbing her skin clean. Archer had laid out an ochre colored shirt, black trousers and shoes; she didn't ask who they belonged to for good reason.

The sound of the pipes stopped, and Wendy moved faster.

Curious eyes flickered over her when she emerged from the cave into the main camp, a smile that didn't bleed any sort of joy or genuine happiness flitting to Runner's lips in a cruel animosity. "You clean up nice for a Lass who reeks of a pirate's ship." He mused. "I don't often recall any of the boys wearing get-ups like that. Hopefully in your case, it was a gift."

Wendy parted her lips to speak, tilting her chin up in indignation, but before the words could slash at his ineffable ego, another voice had her standing taller. The presence suddenly at her side held a greater amount of tension, every single flick of a glance her way analytical; waiting. His arms were crossed more often than not, and every word spoken to her gave her none of the warm jesting that was so prominent between them long ago. He spoke to her only because he had to, and if he didn't have to, it wasn't likely that he would.

But he had let her come back, at Archer's suggestion that she was merely an innocent victim. Perhaps he believed that, or perhaps he was merely waiting to see how it would play out.

"Likewise, lad." Peter had said.

She instinctively buried both hands in the pockets of her trousers, gripping the dagger, unsure of what it was that she was afraid of. Peter hadn't tried to hurt her, but his eyes.

Something there that made her fingers tighten around the hilt, made her thumb brush against the silver blade. She stood still and waited. Waited for him to move, do something, anything, that might cause her to spring into action.

She tried to force his voice over her body instead of through it, slicing and melting her the way she found it did. Her muscles tightened.

Silence pervaded the camp as she mulled over his words. She looked at him, a little sadly now, as if trying to reach into his soul with her pensive glare. The dynamic between the two shifted, where time itself seemed out of joint, and Wendy, staring silently into the eyes of Peter—eyes which held only shadows of the unknown—could do nothing but acknowledge the cool calculation in his expression.

Despite her rather obvious melancholy, her gaze was oddly dark, as if absorbing his changed state, memorizing it like the wax of a phonograph.

"I don't believe I've properly introduced myself yet. I'm Wendy." It was the only logical thing to do, was it not? After all, he didn't remember her. She slowly removed her hands from her pockets and dropped an obeisant curtsy, sparing him as gentle an expression as she could manage without letting too much of her unease seep through.

Despite the harsh demeanor that radiated off of him, Peter still looked like a pale precious little thing with green eyes that were genuinely puzzled in expression, flitting over her with the utmost curiosity. Curiosity he didn't outwardly express but seemed ever present nonetheless. His light brown hair held slight curls and few flyaways that stuck up and practically begged for a trim. His face held soft edges and deep curves resting above a set jawline.

Careful and tentative steps ceased only a mere couple of feet away from her. His forehead creased, meeting her eyes with raised eyebrows. He didn't extend a hand. "So you are." His voice was powerful, the presence that came along with it undeniably calm. There was a rocky sincerity to his words, but it did make the statement feel all the more confident.

"I suppose I should introduce myself, then. I'm Peter. Peter Pan." His eyebrows folded as the words came out, one careful and untrustworthy stare sweeping over her. His expression hid something much darker over this farce he was putting out, but then he tilted his head, the barest trace of a smile crossed his lips, one that lifted both corners of his mouth and disappeared as he acknowledged her.

Clearly, she irked him.

And he didn't like it at all.

Soft drops of rain patterned gently above their heads, signaling the arrival of more rain with the ever growing shove between them. "We didn't necessarily get off on the right foot." He grinned, yet made no attempt at an apology, or so much as a suggestion as how to correct their rocky start.

It was common for Lost Boys to have the mindset that they needn't apologize, Archer or Jester being the only exceptions and for entirely different reasons.

He didn't look too eager to continue their conversation, the pipes gripped in one hand, the other smoothed inside of his pocket but likely clenched into a fist. Unlike Killian, he didn't look away, kept his eyes fixated as if expecting her to leap on him at any moment, and that only urged her to straighten a little taller. "You mentioned you fell overboard from the pirates. What is Jones up to these days? Settling in as Captain easily enough after the last one?"

Runner scoffed.

A small smile tugged at the left corner of her mouth, more compliant than enthusiastic, but the urgent nerves inside her were grateful for the way Peter focused on her. Her heart thrummed inside her as he introduced himself in return and acknowledged her. She studied his face, in awe, her gaze sweeping over curls that she had lovingly slicked back once.

"Dreamy," she had said on a sigh, leaning back to examine him. He sat against the rim of the wooden bathtub and snorted, passing his fingertips carefully over her handiwork.

Now a few of them stuck up in the air, resulting in an outrageously endearing sight. One that she had missed desperately.

"He's looking for you." she said quietly, surprised by the worry in her tone, and took yet another very short, very tentative step towards him. It wasn't news. Perhaps it was the guilt that pooled within her for feeling so terribly drawn to the pirate. Perhaps it was the fact that she wasn't sure what he planned on doing once he actually found him.

Slowly, almost reverently, she inched even closer until she stood right in front of him, feeling the flush of her skin beneath her new clothes.

"You stole something from him, didn't you?" Her words were soft, unhurried. She kept her eyes fixed on him. "What was it, Peter?" Her thoughts raced, turbulent within her.

"You're awfully perceptive." Peter remarked with a hint of sarcasm.

Killian and Peter had never had it out for each other in the beginning–that had always been left to Hook–but whatever had happened with her absence had turned to some sort of bloodthirsty rivalry between the two.

Then he scoffed at her question, finally turning his gaze away from her to some far off point in the forest instead. "Did he tell you to ask me that or is it merely your own curiosity?" With a bit of an accusation in his tone, as she persisted in moving toward him, he was ever relentless in stepping away. Every single inch of space that closed between them was opened wide again with his insistence at never standing too close to her.

Kilian's issue may have been eye contact, but Peter's seemed to be space, close contact.

What his eyes hid so well, his body seemed to betray, every incessant twitch in his muscles that insisted upon something else. "Nobody leaves the island without my permission. Captain Killian Jones is no exception. I gave him the resources to leave the island as he requested, but-" He cocked his head, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. "There has to be a debt settled by a simple trade. The only downside is, I get to pick what it is."

His brow slanted sideways, and his eyes were suddenly drawn and glaring when he looked back to her. "I'll go so far as to say you should have gambled with your chances and asked him yourself. The answer most certainly won't come from me." And he said such with the utmost finality, a statement that did not leave much room for arguing about it, if any. "Why should a bird who was thrown into open waters by the same man give such a damn anyway?"

The way he called her a bird made her pulse spike and an awareness of something soft ache in her chest. Wendy was suddenly stricken with a strange paralysis that had her heart constricting with jagged, painful sentiment. A resigned, almost inaudible sigh escaped her.

"I'm just curious because..." Wendy trailed off, stopped in her tracks and briefly lowered her gaze. She felt a sudden tightness in her throat; her brows pinched together. Head held high, she clenched her fists, that crease of concern on her forehead never quite disappearing as they spoke.

"He seemed so furious about it. I'm worried. About you." she said hesitantly, unsure of herself. The decidedness and confidence in his voice made her knees feel humiliatingly weak. "You're not afraid at all, are you?" Of course, of course he wasn't. He'd never been afraid of Killian, or so it seemed. Now that her question was out it almost seemed laughable.

Her eyes were still roaming his face as if she had a hard time believing he was actually there. She stood completely still. A slight bitterness twisted on her mouth. Beneath the present danger, beneath the crowded buzz of thoughts and questions in her mind, she desperately wanted to know what it was that Peter stole from him. Anxiety prickled in her gut, feeling too deep and ominous for her to examine fully with her limited timeframe. He looked as if he was about to leave the room any moment. She wanted to prevent it.

She wanted to hug him. She couldn't. He wasn't the same.

The statement was laden with inner conflict, sadness, and relief. She said it without thinking, without careful contemplation. Her face grew ridiculously warm, but before panic could rot inside her, she tried to steer the conversation away from her sudden confession, as if determined to pretend she had never said such a thing in the first place. "What are you going to do if he finds you?" Now that she thought about it, maybe Killian had more reason to be afraid of Peter. He wasn't. That much was clear. But this different, darker version of him, the heart of Neverland itself–he was a force to be reckoned with.

It didn't sit well with her, enough to make her feel bad for the captain. It felt impossible to stop worrying about either of the two. She wanted nothing more than to uncover their history.

"Why would I ever be afraid of Jones?" Peter remarked, throwing his hands out to the sides as if it was even a question as to why he didn't fear Killian. He treated it as an insult, curling his lip and sporting an expression of mild disgust.

"You haven't the slightest reason to fear for me. The only one you should worry about is yourself." Despite his words, he still seemed unnerved by her lingering gaze, a sort of vulnerability pricking at him that he wasn't used to. Between them, there was no light to balance the extreme force, the scales easily tipping onto one side.

Peter's hands clenched into fists at his sides, grinding his teeth hard against each other with one jerk of his head. "If I ever see Killian Jones again, I can assure you that I will take his life from him. He was lucky that I did not take it as our trade. If he chooses to pursue me again, he is only granting me permission that I did not need in the first place."

There was a hurricane inside of him, powerful and destructive but only quelled by that stare on him, the wild animal that was ready to come out at any time and quench a thirst for blood, locked in its cage and silent only because of that look.

It unnerved her, made her uncomfortable. Made her think.

"Until then, I am going to proceed on as I have and you're going to leave your childish wonders to yourself." He hissed through grit teeth.

Her forehead wrinkled and she instantly regretted how devilish her own impulsiveness could be. She was there, wanting to see what he was feeling and wanting to understand Peter Pan whom she knew to be deeply dangerous to her now. Carefully she considered her next words.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly and took a step away from him, as if burned. "It's just–"

Wendy wanted to cry. She took a trembling breath, feeling a sob locked in her vocal chords, drying her throat and paining her. Somehow her shock at his rage prevented her from actually summoning the tears. She did and she didn't know him. He was right, in a way. She had lost someone else. Not this altered version of him.

She simply stared at him, thunderstruck—or perhaps in awe—as she tried to regain her composure to no avail. For a second she thought she could see a glimpse of the appearance of a young man in distress, a man who was constantly running from something that could never be escaped.

"This isn't you, Peter." Though everything about his conduct suggested viciousness, she whispered as though he would break in half if she raised her voice. In truth, she was scared. He looked as if he was ready to lunge at her if she made one wrong move. Perhaps she already had.

Some reckless nerve made her take a tiny step closer to him. She quickly clenched and unclenched her fists. She could not be distracted nor could she let him be distracted from the fact that it was time she started a genuine sort of…interrogation.

"I care."

Another tiny step.

"I know you don't need my protection. That's not what this is about."

Her hand imperceptibly brushed against her pocket, just in case.

Shadows cast over his face, draining what had once been a usual warm light that he used to carry with him so easily. This Peter seemed more true to this new reality of Neverland, but there was still the barest hint of the old Peter underneath that the new one tried so hard to snuff out.

Somberness flickered in his eyes. "Stop." Despite the unease in his tone, he was fighting the part of him that was attempting to gain control of the side of him that had once been normal. He looked at her with a raging focus, every muscle rigid and tense.

Another small step, but he couldn't move back any further, the wall against his spine. He glared. "I don't." About you. But that didn't need to be said. There was an air of familiarity, but one that didn't urge him to get closer, rather it urged him to get angry. To run.

Peter's fingers grappled for his dagger, for a moment acting as if he would lash out, delve into the dark part of him that only this new version of him would go. He rounded on her, each step more insistent than the last. "Don't play this game. It's a dangerous one and I'd prefer you to not get involved." He snapped. "You have a harsh reality to wake up to, Lass but I'd suggest you try and keep your accusations to yourself." His eyes flickered between both of hers, his voice low.

Her heart leapt in her chest as he backed her up against a tree. She thought she could see the cogs turning in his head. Her own thoughts were clustering, unraveling, like a ball of yarn rolling down the tunnel that led to the underground living space. His sudden proximity stole the breath clean from her body, causing a mess of goosebumps to rise with a shiver atop her skin. She could see his struggle; could see the flashes of Peter, real Peter. Wendy felt a pang in her chest.

Reflexively, her fingers hovered over her pocket.

He wasn't going to hurt her, was he? She lifted her chin. The fear in her chest squeezed her heart, made her bones feel curiously soft. Her eyes moved over his face, his light brown hair, the perfect haughty elegance of his features.

Peter jerked away as if her touch burned him. He couldn't look more angry, more confused.

Lost.

"Take a page from my book and understand that whatever quarrel you believe you have with me, you don't. There is nothing between us in the past that needs digging up. If there is, I most certainly don't want it."

Slowly and with great reluctance, he backed off, shoving the dagger back into its respective place in its sheath. He shoved past her, making his abrupt exit through the forest and disappeared through the other side without another word. Whatever piece of the old Peter Pan had been there before, this new one had quickly snuffed him out, made sure that he stayed buried under whatever curse had grabbed a hold of him and refused to let go.

The storm seemed to be picking up now, a rough breeze shaking the trees outside with a rumble of thunder sounding in the distance. The rain didn't match it, two similar forces smashing against the island in completely different ferocities. A fight of two sides toward one similar goal.

Wendy stood frozen, trying to untangle what exactly had just happened. She blinked, his words hurting her so suddenly, and unexpectedly, that her head started spinning. She didn't move, measuring her breaths, trying to hypnotize herself into a state of calm, of indifference. It barely worked.

The other Lost Boys appeared in the clearing, all eyes curious–noticeably without Archer. He'd still set her up in her own personal space with more cushioning, several blankets folded up against the foot and a change of clothes just in case.

"Archer isn't with you?" Jester's head swiveled around as he walked in, turning in one full circle, mouth slightly agape. "Gone again right on schedule, but I thought for your utmost grandiose return he would stick around." He said thoughtfully.

Despite her utmost inner turmoil, she luckily had it in her to find the presence of the others soothing. It felt familiar, sitting there with them. And at the present moment, familiar she needed.

She half-heartedly shook her head at Jester's question, then slowly looked up, shuffling with the others into the mouth of the cave. Outside, thunder rumbled and she wondered where on earth Archer had gone. Surely he wouldn't want to stroll around the island in this weather? She wiggled her fingers as if she were holding something invisible that she was twirling around.

Gone again right on schedule?

Wendy straightened her back a little, a fresh thought in her voice, a genuine concern for the boy. "Where does Archer usually go at this time?"

"Different reasons." Runner sneered, his steps in tow with Jester's. The two of them were soaked, standing dripping in the entryway, but neither batted an eye. When the former looked at Wendy, the crease in his brow deepened, a look of utter contempt flitting across his face for the barest second and finished with a grumble. "And yet always at the same time most nights."

"Eight months now." Jester added, fidgeting in place, his smile in equal measures amused and interested. "I've been counting." He fumbled with his fingers. "We just always assumed that he needed to take a breather–take a walk or something–but sun or rain, hail or snow, he always goes." His lips puckered slightly, finger lifting to his chin. He cocked his head. "I'm beginning to wonder about our presumptions–"

"He could just be a simple traitor. Pan doesn't take too kindly to those anymore." Runner spat.

"Archer?" Jester turned his head, mouth slightly agape, eyes suddenly bewildered and confused. Disbelieving. "If anyone has the most loyalty to Peter, it's him."

"Those are the ones you have to watch out for."

"You mean, unlike you?" Jester shot back, and only with one look from his companion did he shrink underneath it. "If you don't mind me saying so, that is. It was merely what I thought from what you said…" The rest drawn out into an incohesive mumbling, crossing his arms in a defensive gesture as he took a slight step closer to Wendy.

"Nevertheless, he'll be back with another half-assed excuse." Runner diverted his judgemental gaze. "We're not lucky enough to be rid of him that easily, unfortunately."

She frowned as she listened, balling her hands into fists on her lap. Her worry only increased at their words, but she supposed there was nothing she could do except wait. Perhaps she could ask him once he got back. Although the island was beautiful, full of fireflies and wonder, it could be a scary place, especially at night. Then again, if Archer did this every night? He would most certainly know what he was doing. Or so she hoped.

Thoughts wandering, Wendy began to ponder Peter once more. She clenched her jaw at the remembrance of their argument. Distracting herself, she got to her feet and picked up a small box of matches from a table nearby to light up every wax candle she could find, one by one. Soon the underground living space was illuminated by a calming glow that turned them all into ghostly figures.

She forced herself to ignore Runner's venomous glances and flopped down on her bed with a sigh. The roar of thunder and the company of the others made her feel pleasantly warmed. Then, with a sudden desperate punch of her heart, she thought of Killian. She exhaled quietly, let her breath flutter out until a strand of hair fell from her face, slipping along her shoulder.

A flick of sadness crossed her face, her brows coming together in an expression of conflict. Her worried eyes traced the floor, frozen in abrupt distress. There was an ache in her gut - frustrated affection, she wondered, or lack of food? The corners of her mouth briefly flickered with a frown and she listened to the ongoing tempest.

As the candles were lit, the boys settled into their beds for the night, clumped together in one small area and settled on the floor. Only with great reluctance, and a snide remark from Runner, the pair also bid their farewell and went to join their companions–aside from Peter who had yet to make his way back in after their argument, likely still seething outside in some sort of righteous fury.

She was still awake when Archer's shadow moved across the floor, attempting some form of discreteness. The storm helped to mute his footsteps somewhat, creating a trail behind him as he slunk across the cave floor headed back to his bed. Deft fingers ran carefully through his disheveled hair-wet strands sticking up where his fingers happened to run through.

He didn't notice Wendy, rather the fact that she was awake, sparing her a side glance as he passed by her bed though continued. There was something to his careful steps that betrayed the fact he was being discreet for the sake of waking anyone up, rather he was trying to be sure nobody noticed him coming back. Wanting to avoid questions, demanding insistence of his exact whereabouts, something more than a simple walk in the woods during a storm.

She watched Archer with an intense glare, sighed mutely and fell back against the pillows, her mind whirring with questions and thoughts that hadn't any answer.

"Peter!"

Wendy reached out a trembling hand, pawing at his arm with soft, barely-there brushes of her stiff, cold fingers. She grit her teeth, bowing her head in an attempt to lessen the wind that stung her cheeks. Snow was piled up everywhere. The cold here was different. Not a tricky thing with tendrils creeping beneath your skin, in between your ribs, nestling into your bones before you realize it's there. It was harsh and almost visible in its there-ness, impossible to ignore. It was burrowing into her cells now, working its way up her spine. Everything was fading in and out, and she could barely feel him anymore.

His eyes fluttered open and they were rimmed red, the color a stark contrast to the concerning paleness of his skin. His lips were tinted blue. His body was shivering violently, and his pupils were dilated.

His mouth started moving. He was definitely trying to speak, trying to convey some sort of message, but he simply couldn't get the words out. Or, maybe he could, but his voice was so quiet, so broken, that the blinding white snuffed out the words like candles. She shook his shoulder, called his name, over and over. He fixed her with a distant stare that was impossibly hard to read.

She woke with a jump, feeling the blow of a short fall thud against her back. She groaned and looked above her head to see that she had rolled off of the cushioned, slightly elevated ground she had fallen asleep on. Her long legs felt limp. She pulled her knees up to her chest, smacking her hands over her eyes and removing herself completely from her unearthly slumber. Outside, Neverbirds sang in praise to the nascent light of the sun that now filled the underground cave.

It looked to be somewhere toward high noon, the sun glaring harshly through the entrance and the beds where the Lost Boys had slept were empty. Peter's curtain to his own quarters had been pulled aside to reveal the empty bare minimum that made up his room, but the rumbling chatter resounded outside.

Archer was just walking in when she tumbled off of her makeshift bed, his steps hastening until he could crouch beside her. "You okay? Bad dream?" Despite arriving back so late, there was not a single ounce of sleep deprivation in his eyes. If anything, they were brighter, harboring that youthful innocence behind eyes that looked as if they had seen a lot. Too much. Some wisdom that wasn't meant for someone of his age, but had since long learned to deal with it.

"Everyone is getting something to eat and we're breaking for the tribe encampment. Peter wants you to come." Albeit not for the reason of merely wanting her to go, rather he didn't trust to leave her behind, not by herself and not in their camp. "All of the boys are coming along, so you should be safe to make the trip even if you're not completely recovered from yesterday." He blinked suddenly, eyes widening.

"Not that… I don't think that you can't handle yourself, I just–" His face flushed in embarrassment, running his fingers across the nape of his neck. "I don't know what I'm trying to say, but-" He huffed, rising to his feet with a shake of his head. "Uh, come get something to eat. I got you some extra clothes if you want to wash, and if you need anything else I will be right…. Out there." He mumbled, pointing awkwardly toward the exit.

Once again, Wendy held herself back from asking Archer about the reason behind his nightly walks. Instead, she thanked him and went to get ready. She was wearing an all black get-up when she left the underground living space to join the others outside. She decided to avoid looking at Peter altogether.

Apparently Archer had convinced him to take a trip to the tribe encampment. The sky was overcast and gray, a comfortable chill in the air. It was peaceful, idyllic, nourishing, as some might say, for the heart and the soul. She wrapped her arms around herself, thankful for the vest she was wearing, a cool wind blustering from the mountains nearby.

Her breakfast consisted of coconut water, shellfish, crab and berries. Once she felt satiated, she slowly rose from her stump, stretched and looked up to watch the birds - everything from tiny, drab things chirping noisily, to elegant, soaring shadows that would drift silently by overhead. She let her arms drop to her sides with a small but surprisingly content smile.

Absently running a hand over her pocket to feel the outline of the hidden knife there, she still refused to even glance in Peter's direction as she waited for everyone to finish their meals.

Peter didn't spare her a single look. He stood off to the side a little ways from the boys, eyebrows flicking upward as he munched on what looked to be at first glance a piece of bread. He ate like he was trying to get it over with, every piece of food had to be strangled while it was devoured, but there was still something eloquent about it that contrasted from how the rest of the boys shoved food into their faces with little regard as to how they looked while doing it.

Nothing in his expression harbored even a shred of a reminder from who he showed himself as the day before. He looked passive, calm, and not as if there was a shadow looming behind him every moment that tried to shove bad ideas into his head without consent. When he glanced at Wendy, there was not an ounce of disgust, rather a shred of discomfort before he moved on. He swiped his palms together, clearing them of food debris, and with only so much as a single head jerk in one direction, the boys were on their feet and proceeding into the forest.

Everyone's steps were in tow, with Peter at the lead and Runner at the back. Fox and Runner bickered on about nothing particularly important and attempted to get Scout to play the Middle Man, Archer tagging along just behind Peter but having not said anything since the awkward encounter with Wendy that morning. At least, not until Peter spared a look over his shoulder. "Where did you go last night?" He asked.

"Hm?" Archer cocked a brow, then shrugged. "Nowhere. Just a walk."

"In a storm?"

"Yeah, well there's an advantage to walking out during a storm and that means I don't have to try as hard for a bath, right?" He chuckled softly at that, a gentle attempt to steer the conversation away, Wendy noticed.

Peter's solemn nod suggested he didn't believe him, but he didn't press the issue either. "We haven't been to the tribes in a while." He noted. "They might not be all that pleased to see you, Lass." The remark was directed at Wendy, even if he wasn't looking at her. "I suppose we'll just have to hope they agree to see us in good faith and don't hold us accountable for any of their problems." He then clarified. "Besides the island's sudden change. Pirates, bandits, Neverland cult followers, you name it. This isn't the same happy-go-lucky island for children's wishes and dreams, innit? I imagine you're disappointed."

Wendy frowned at Peter's words, but didn't respond. A tacit scowl besieged her countenance, and she fought against the dire sting that came with the way he treated her. Though her innate reluctance of it was of little consequence, as its diaphanous folds held her, tightening around her like a second skin, its cold, comforting gesture leaving only a trace of apathetic sympathy for the girl who had become a woman.

She tried to remember the last time she had been to the tribe encampment. It seemed so terribly long ago. How would its residents react upon seeing her again? She padded after Archer, moving silently over fallen sticks and branches, the other Lost Boys in tow. The jungle stood in sharp contrast to the dismal streets of London that were almost bleak in the absent presence of spring.

She wanted to feel less affected.

Nevertheless, she could not cast his memory aside so easily. Every cell of her body wished for him to remember her, remember them both, and most importantly, remember himself. But as the idle recollections of a perpetual innocence lingered within the hollows of her still-childlike mind, she could not fathom the shadows that enshrouded them now.

She gave Archer a sidelong glance, knowing that there was something he wasn't telling them. Despite her curiosity, she respected this. They walked and walked through the wilderness as she tried to suppress the occasional memory of Killian's hand in hers.

The group walked in an otherwise empty and drawn out silence–Peter having realized that she wouldn't respond to his remarks slipped into quiet submission. Aside from the quiet chattering of the twins, no one else attempted to occupy the sudden tension that wove between them all. Peter definitely seemed in higher spirits than the night before, but there was a noticeable distance that he kept between him and Wendy, a sort of tension that held tightly to his muscles whenever she happened to draw close.

They took a long winding path, leaves crunching underfoot that eventually turned into grassy hills. The Indian encampment loomed at the very top, overclouded by the passing storms and making the camp look all the more dull and devoid of the color it'd naturally had before. Peter took the lead, head swiveling around as the Indians emerged from their houses, wary glances darting their way both in alarm and quiet anticipation.

One spoke to Peter, another language that wasn't decipherable at first, but he only had to offer one hand gesture before the Indian slunk off toward the other side of their camp. Peter crossed his arms and waited.

Wendy stiffened and suddenly there was a strange lump in her throat. The Indian village wasn't what she thought it would be. The eerie darkness that had taken over Neverland hung over this place as well, painting it a dull gray. Finally, she looked at Peter, not surprised to see that he wasn't looking at her in return. She clenched her fists and forced herself to stare ahead with a pensive, unsettled glare.

And there she stepped out from behind one of the houses, her raven black hair tied in two loose braids. A young woman with tanned skin and a stoic look on her face.

Wendy swallowed down her unease, or tried to. There was no reason to be upset, she thought. No reason.

But she was so pretty.

She locked eyes with her and for a moment there was nothing but utter tension between them. Her red poncho contrasted starkly and all of a sudden Wendy felt so very grim in her black clothes.

A man her age walked up beside her and whispered something in her ear. She answered him–it sounded like an order–in that same decipherable language and he whirled to jog away. They regarded each other for a few more seconds and it was the woman who finally looked away.

More determined than ever, now, she strode toward Peter without a hint of further hesitation.

"Pan." she greeted, her voice steadfast and without uncertainty.

Tigerlily.