The days passed quickly and in near silence. Peter spent a lot of time wandering— the inn, the town, the trails surrounding the town. He hated it. He begrudgingly admitted to himself that life was more enjoyable with Wendy than without. He poked and prodded at her every chance he got, but she still looked at him with large brown eyes, putting up a front of cold anger and underneath it, terror. Wendy, who was fearless to a fault. It was something he could depend upon; she charged into danger with hardly a thought; braving Gold's mansions, risking her life for her family and most of all, surviving Neverland. He might have even admitted that he was concerned for her. If only mildly.
She drifted between her bed and the chair in front of the fire, diligently reading through the spell books and then in the evenings, her novels. The book he had bought for her sat untouched where she had left it.
The day they were leaving, as they were sweeping out of their room, laden with coats and cloaks and bags, he noticed it still sitting on the side table. Turning back from the door, he picked it up and waved it at her. "You almost forgot this."
The look she gave him made it clear she meant to forget it.
Was the book so repulsive? Was he so repulsive? She was more than happy to use the things he bought. She wore dresses and sweaters and cloaks bought with his money. She slept under roofs and ate food he paid for. What about the book was so damn wrong? He had thought she would enjoy it; it was filled with some of Gavin's favourite stories.
Grumbling, he shoved it into his pack and followed her out the door and down the twisting halls down to the stables. The rain and sleet had not let up for one moment the past few days and it did not look like it was about to let up as they stepped outside. Wendy almost folded in on herself as the wind hit them. Quickly, they made their way over to the stables where they handed off their bags to be loaded onto the horses.
While they waited, the staff chatted with her, commenting on the weather. Bundled up in multiple layers and the new light blue coat he had bought for her, she somehow transformed. Suddenly, she was a charming young lady with rosy cheeks and a warm smile. She graciously thanked the staff for all they did. They were all delighted with her, and how could they not? She was thoroughly enchanting. He could almost see her gliding through Victorian society, exchanging pleasantries and catching the eyes of eligible bachelors. He had not thought much of how she might have been in her own world. The world he had stolen her from.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught an exchange of coins and an envelope from Wendy to one of the maids. He pretended not to notice and knew now wasn't the time to pester her about it.
Once goodbyes were exchanged, they were left to stand under the awning of the stables, waiting for their horses, he commented, "You can be quite charming when you want to be."
She looked at him warily. He could already see the shivers she was trying to hide. He was reminded, abruptly, that Wendy no longer had Neverland to sustain her; she was mortal.
"I suppose you were taught how to dazzle when you learned French." She raised an eyebrow, questioning. "I do try and listen sometimes, bird."
"You weren't interested when I told you," she huffed. She lifted up her chin, her profile regal in the dim light. It hadn't been a kind remark, but her tone had been close to the haughty one she chastised him with. Not only that, but she had offered him a full sentence. Perhaps she was warming back up to him.
XXX
Pan was trying to get her to warm back up to him. She had known him long enough to see his charms coming from a while away and she knew he would eventually try. He bored easily and didn't take well to time on his own. Pan cared for very few things and attention was one of them.
The pestering had been the first hint. The book the second. Now, the charming banter under the awning of the stables was the third.
She didn't want to warm back up to him. She would not allow herself to be drawn back into his gravity now that she knew better. She could keep her responses short and curt for the rest of this journey until she found Baelfire. And afterwards, she could forget him and pretend that it didn't pain her that he had never cared for Gavin.
Straightening, she pushed Pan out of her head. She didn't have the energy or emotion to devote to wondering about just how callous Pan was. The answer was useless and she had bigger things to worry about. She was about to set out on the most rugged part of their journey so far and she knew that the cold was a much bigger problem than Pan.
Soon, the stablehands brought Philipe and Ash out, loaded with their gear. She quickly swung up onto Ash, glad to be reunited with him and glad her back didn't hurt when she moved. She looked over her shoulder quickly as they trotted away from the inn and towards the mountain paths.
The rain continued to pour down in sheets. The wind whipped around the corners. It put a deep chill her bones. The mountains towered above them, large and imposing and dark. They travelled on the edges of cliffs, up and down jagged paths that no one had dared to walk in years. Below them was a forest valley with thin evergreens, barely surviving. It was a desolate place.
Leaning closer to Ash, she breathed in his warm, homey scent of hay and wood from the stables. She coat was warm against the layers she had put on. She tried to think of warmer times. She thought of summers in England, the delicate scent of roses in their garden at home in London. The sweet and sour taste of lemonade on a hot day in their country home. The spray of cool mist from the fountains in the park on her walks with her friends. The sweet grass had smelled on picnic days.
It all made her feel even colder than before.
Pan was silent ahead of her as they travelled. He had told her many times during his pestering that it would take six days of consistent riding to get there, maybe even a whole week. She didn't need him to tell her that it was Gold's most desolate, remote estate.
Selfishly, she thought back to the inn. She had allowed herself to sink into the luxury. Her world hadn't been in motion for a few days and it had been nice to grow used to one place. Even more, she had been warm, really and truly warm for the first time in weeks. She hadn't looked forward to the long ride, even if Baelfire was at the end of it, and even now she wished she could turn Ash around and fling herself back into the warm cocoon of the inn.
The day continued on in silence. There were few paths and not much need for instructions. They wound up and down mountains, over snowmelt springs and craggy paths. When they finally stopped for camp in the evening, her vision was blurry and her fingers were stiff from the cold. Shivering, she slid off of Ash, her back aching painfully and her jaw sore from the constant chattering of her teeth.
Pan gracefully dismounted from Philipe. Envious, she watched him roam the small clearing they had found, with thin, sparse trees lining the edge of it. The ground was just mud. He circled the camp once more before lifting up his arms. Green light flowed out from his fingertips, enveloping the small clearing. A bubble formed over them and as she looked up, rain continued to fall but it bounced off of an invisible dome. Almost immediately, the ground dried and Pan set about kneeling down to make a campfire.
She wanted to tell him that she would rather be cold than dry, but held her tongue.
She tied up the horses and began unloading the tents. With brittle fingers, she unwound the cords and hammered nails into the ground for the first one. It was small and cramped, but made out of fine hide. She unfurled her sleeping bag into it and contemplated leaving the other tent for Pan to set up. Not even out of spite. Her bag just looked so warm and inviting, it was all she could think about.
She considered the tent for a moment, the other tent bag held loosely in her arm.
"Don't set up the other," Pan said, suddenly beside her. The cold was sapping all her energy, all her thoughts. Pan was not this graceful and lithe. He never managed to sneak up on her unless she was seriously ill.
She turned and blinked at him once, slowly.
"It'll be warmer if we share."
She contemplated refusing him for a long moment. Looking at him was painful. Sharing a tent would be even more so, but the cold was her worst enemy right now, not him. She could swallow her pride to have a hope at being warm during the night.
Without protest, she let the other tent bag drop in the dust before turning back to the other bags the horses carried. As Pan set up a pot of water, she tugged all the blankets she could find out of the packs and wrapped herself in them. Blearily, she knew she should offer one to Pan, but all she could think about was how warm she had been back at the inn. She wanted to feel that way again.
She joined him by the fair, sitting down on a log, cocooned in blankets and cloaks. She watched him silently as he used his magic to light the fire. The wood burst into joyous flames and the water began to boil immediately. She left the log and sat down in the dirt, not minding that the blankets were going to get dirty. She had to get as close to the warmth as she possibly could.
Pan sat a few feet from her. He hobbled together a meal of broth, cheese and bread. It was a disappointing change from what they had had back at the resort, but she scarfed it down anyway. She let the broth scald her mouth and throat as she slurped it back. For a few moments, part of her was too warm and she savoured it.
Overhead, the sky had turned black and the rain was a pounding over their heads. The drumming rhythm sounded almost like a chant, a lullaby. Her eyes began to droop and her head became too heavy for her shoulders. When her head dropped the third time, Pan hauled her up and told her to get ready for bed. She didn't even have the wherewithal to recoil from his touch. Instead, she simply turned and crouched into the tent. She tugged on every clothing item she had brought and crawled into her bedroll, her arms and legs stiff with the layers of clothes. She pulled the blankets over top of her and curled in on her.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine that she were somewhere else, anywhere else. Sleep eluded her, but her mind was heavy and sluggish. It couldn't avoid every snare, every thought she was trying to avoid. Her memory tumbled back into her days with Gavin. Half-dreaming, half-remembering, she found herself sitting next to him on his bed. His head was on her shoulder, his curls brushing against her cheek as she read him a story. Her toes were toasty and the bed was soft beneath her. At the foot of the bed was Pan, silent and calm. Gavin shifted next to her and softly, "G'night. Love you."
"I love you, too, my dar—"
"Sit up," a voice told her, tearing her from Gavin.
Jerking into consciousness, she blinked into the grey dimness of the tent to find Pan crouched over her. He poked her in the shoulder. She smacked away his hand. "I'm up."
"Sit up," he said again. It was painful to pull herself up into a sitting position, but she did it anyway. Crudely, he shoved a hot cup into her hands. She let the metal burn her skin. "I made you tea. It should help."
She turned to look at him. His face was cast half in shadow, half in the fire from outside. She couldn't make out the expression on his face, but his voice had been soft and the tea smelled sweet. She felt as if she was staring at a version of Pan from another universe. Hadn't he just been drifting off, listening to her tell stories to their child?
He doesn't care, she reminded herself. Get it together.
Turning, she swallowed the tea in three gulps. They burned her mouth, but the liquid warmed her insides. For a moment, she was warm and grateful to Pan.
She opened her mouth, about to let a thank you spill out before she clamped it closed. Thanking Pan would have been a stupid thing to do.
He paused a moment, waiting for her thanks. Instead, she handed the cup back to him and turned back towards the end of the tent, away from him. Silently, he left the tent, letting the flap flutter closed behind him.
She lay back down and closed her eyes. She felt the tea seeping in to her and for a moment she was warm. Her body felt heavy and she was pulled her into a dark, downy sleep.
XXX
Despite the tea he had given her before bed, Peter was woken up only hours later to Wendy's chattering teeth. At first, it was only mildly annoying, but then he couldn't get back to sleep.
He turned over and glared at her shivering back. Why did he have to get saddled with a mortal? Not to mention a mortal who couldn't seem to handle any cold? A mortal who was weak and annoying and refused to speak to him? Frustrated, he flipped over. He grumbled to himself about the nuisance that Wendy was, forgetting for a moment how he had missed her company and that he was unnerved by the way she looked at him.
He considered waking her up to warm her with his magic. But, still irritated, decided against it. He had bought her the finest coats, mittens, scarves, hats and clothes money could buy, she was wrapped in nearly all the blankets and he had given her that tea before bed. He was already running thin on his magic. He had expended too much setting up the campsite and keeping the fire going all night. He did not need to waste magic on someone who may not even thank him.
He flipped over onto his back and wrapped his pillow tighter around his head before falling back into an angry sleep. He woke up in the morning to an empty tent. The cold seeped into his sleeping bag and he was far too aware of the uneven ground he slept on. He rubbed blearily at his eyes and wished for the bed back at the inn. Slowly, he crawled out from his bag and into the grey morning light. Overhead, the rain still pattered down onto the dome he had made.
He found Wendy outside, huddled by the fire, wrapped in blankets and coats. She looked up at him, eyes wide and he was struck for a moment by how old her eyes were. He reminded himself that she was old. But she looked different now, shaking from the cold, fragile and tired.
"Your teeth chattered all night," he told her. His sleep had been shallow and he didn't have the self-control to stop himself from biting out, "It was annoying."
She glared. "So sorry to have disturbed you." It was not sincere.
He humphed. His magic would have been a waste on her.
Raggedly, they packed up camp. He stamped out the fire and she slowly, painfully slowly, took down the tent and rolled up their sleeping bags. He joined her and folded up the blankets and shoved them back into their packs. Clambering back onto Philipe, he grit his teeth and raised his arm to the top of the dome. Reluctantly, he dragged his arm down and with it, the dome. After a moment's pause, the rain came crashing down on them, just as frigid and hard as before.
Wendy hunched in on herself, drawing her cloak tighter around her. Tremors spread over her body. He paused for a moment. Weak and mortal, she was at the mercy of the elements. He was saddled with someone fragile and breakable. He tilted his head and considered her. Would she be able to make it two weeks in this wasteland? Wendy was stubborn and fierce, but willpower wouldn't keep her from freezing to death.
Turning, they picked their way through grey shrubs until they came back to the mountain path. Rocks shifted underfoot as they began their ascent up into the sky. The day passed, monotonously. A few times during the day, he thought that he had gotten lost. All the cliff faces looked the same. The vegetation was so sparse and pathetic, they made useless markers. He hoped he was leading them the right way.
As days and nights passed, they began to blend into one another, becoming as unrecognizable as the mountains that surrounded them. They travelled up steep cliffs, around sharp bends, through the thin forest.
The rain and sleet stopped, but there was no respite. Instead, a fierce wind buffeted them, lashing his face. The cold was so cruel, so unrelenting, it burned Peter's cheeks. The rain and sleet was almost preferable to the wind. They were no longer wet, but they were so much colder. At night, his magic could block out the wind, but not the searing cold. His nights were full of shallow sleep; woken up every couple of hours either to the chattering of teeth or to the biting cold. Fingers and toes and nose numb, he woke up in the mornings bone tired and cursing the mountains and the terrain and the callous wind. His bones ached and his muscles were sore and stiff from the cold. Moving was difficult and he had to convince himself every morning to start moving, to lift himself up onto his horse and keep his eyes open long enough to guide them through the jagged paths.
Few words were exchanged through the day, amounting to nearly a dozen words dedicated to directions. Wendy was a distant presence at his side, eyes downcast and shivering constantly. In the evening, they sat in silence over dinner. He was too cold and too tired to try and fill the tense silences. Instead, he stewed in it, wondering when Wendy would just get over it. She had held onto this icy anger for so long; he was tired of it, bored with whatever he had done to upset her. Was this really so much worse than anything else he had done?
Every night, Wendy stood from the fire and unpacked the horses. She bundled herself up into sweaters and jackets and blankets before shuffling into the tent. He sat stewing for a little while before remembering that she was mortal and cold and tired, so different from her usual vibrant, bright self. The Wendy he knew had withered into a shivering, silent pile of blankets. His silent days wore on him and he wished for her steady presence, her stimulating conversation. He even wished for one of her self-righteous arguments. He would inevitably make the tea, half-hoping that it wouldn't just warm her, but bring her back to him.
He would nudge her awake and she would pull herself up slowly before taking the mug into her hands. She wrapped her fingers around the scalding cup and would breath int the steam deeply before gulping the tea down quickly. One the third night, he watched her shivering fingers, white and pink at the tips, before giving her his pair of gloves when she gave back the cup. She stared at them warily before tugging them on.
Despite the tea, he would inevitably wake up to the chattering of her teeth. He would take five deep breaths, but the annoyance still bubbled up inside him. Burdensome, half-frozen most of the time, even with the piles of blankets and clothes, she was a nuisance. He hardly slept with the cold and was never refreshed by the little sleep he got. He didn't need the chattering of her teeth keeping him up. Especially when that was the main sound coming out of her mouth these days. Silent during the day, and irritating during the night. Couldn't she disturb him when the sun was up? If she was going to continue with those cold stares and keep him at arm's length, couldn't she at least keep that up at night? He glared at her shivering back before falling into a tense sleep. Without fail, he would wake up several more times that night, either to the cold or to Wendy.
Over dinner on the sixth day, before they were expected to arrive at the mansion, Wendy finally asked him, "What is this mansion like?"
He considered her. He contemplated throwing her a snarky remark, but stopped himself as he looked at her. She stared at him with tired eyes, deep circles left bruises under her eyes and skin pale. Her hair hung in matted strands around her face. He forgot the conversation as he looked at her, worry clawing at his throat.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by her persistence. "Well?"
"Why are you so interested?"
She narrowed her eyes. "This is a conversation we usually have."
He paused. She was correct. Albeit, the conversations usually started days if not weeks in advance and it usually involved more of a give-and-take.
He sighed. "I honestly don't know much about this one." He rubbed at his temple, the skin on his fingers scratched along his skin, cracked from the frost. "It's one of his older ones so there might be books there that are of use to us."
She stared at him, eyes dark and expectant. She knew he had more to say and he did.
"I know it was one of his favourites when he built it, but he visited it much less frequently in the recent past." He shrugged. "Got bored with it."
Wendy watched him for a long moment and he could read the snarky comment on her face that was inevitably on the tip of her tongue. A family trait. Instead she said, "Perhaps, he's hidden out there because it's one of his least favourites."
Her words were young and foolish, hopeful and naive. He could almost see her thoughts, the image of her reunion with Baelfire bright in her mind.
He snorted. "I wouldn't think so. Don't get your hopes up." Her face fell and she looked incredibly lonely for a moment. Regret descended on him and for a moment he wanted to take those words back, swallow them up and undo what they had done. It had been cruel to dash her hopes into the ground. I'm supposed to be cruel, he told himself, but the reminder rang hollow, feeling like a lie.
XXX
They found the mansion in ruins.
Wind whipped around them as they stood at what once had been the large, imposing gates of the mansion. Mountains circled them for miles around, straining for the sky. The forest was a smudge of grey-green below them.
Sat on a plateau of grey, withering grass, the crumbling remains and sprawling rubble of grand ballrooms and wide halls stretched out before them. Piles of expertly carved rock, light grey and cold, hinted that the mansion had once been a towering, imposing structure. The skeleton of the mansion remained in some places, and in a couple places the second floor was even intact. Broken furniture, ripped curtains and pages of books lay strewn across the entire property. Completely and totally desolate.
Pan stared at the ruins, unconcerned and unmoved. He caught Wendy's eye and turned, "I did tell you not to get your hopes up."
Closing her eyes, she took a deep, shaky breath. The wind lashed through her clothes and the frost bit down into her skin, all the way to the bone. Her clothes, the layers and layers of them, offered her no warmth.
They had travelled weeks just to find this mansion, her hope, in decaying pieces. Baelfire felt like a ghost of a memory now, so far from her. She balled her hands into fists. With each passing day, it was harder to believe that he was flesh and bone, somewhere out there in the world. Michael and John even seemed like a far away fog, murky and unreachable, immaterial.
"Stiff upper lip, bird," Pan said. Her eyes slid over him. Even though he stood before her, he was just as unreal as her brothers, distant and untouchable. He may as well have been a wisp of mist. Nothing held him. Nothing ever had, even if she had once believed that.
"This was a waste." She wanted him to disagree, to argue that it wasn't all for naught. She wanted him to care enough to offer her a morsel of comfort. She wanted him to care about the quest, about Baelfire, about her…about Gavin.
She immediately slammed the thought down. Stupid and foolish. Even slipping up like that would get her hurt, she knew.
Pan shrugged, his cloak catching in the wind. "Rumple and I have been around a long time. One of his estates was bound to be in complete disrepair."
Swallowing her despair, Wendy turned Ash and began to trot away. She called up the image of a warm, comfortable bed, food that didn't taste like dust in her mouth, a body that wasn't stiff and aching…. another being that was cold and heartless.
"What do you think you're doing?" Pan called.
She looked over her shoulder at him. He had gotten off of Philipe and was tying him up. "What do you think you're doing?"
"We can still check it out," he told her without looking back, sounding irritating.
Looking up at the sky, she cursed silently. Her fingers were numb, blistered from the cold. Rummaging through freezing stone and damp furniture was the last thing she wanted to do. She couldn't waste more time on something that wasn't going to happen. She saw no hope in those ruins.
But Pan was determined and she couldn't go on without him. Still cursing, she turned back Ash, tying him up next to Philipe. She gave both horses an appreciative pat on the snout, taking a moment to let their warmth seep into her hands, their musky scent to sooth her. As soon as she turned from them, something in the pit of her stomach dropped, a stone crashing down into a chasm. She looked around anxiously; the estate no longer felt abandoned, the mountains no longer empty.
Pan had already entered through the gates and turned to her. There wasn't a hint of the unease she felt, but then again, when had Pan ever let his emotions show, let himself feel?
"We'll start at opposite ends and meet in the middle," he said. She looked him over warily, taking in the dark sweater and cloak, the fact that his hands didn't shake from the cold. She hoped he knew how much she did not want to be there. "It'll be quick." She narrowed her eyes. The comment was not comforting.
He turned, either ignoring or not seeing the acidic look she had given him. She glared at his back as he turned towards the eastern edge of the ruins, picking over rocks and rubble, moving gracefully. With one more wrathful look, she began trudging to her end of the rubble, stumbling over sharp rocks and splintered furniture.
Abandoned mansions now felt like a second home to her. She had seen more than she had ever cared to see and had gotten a feel for them. They crumbled from the weakest places, folding in on themselves, imploding with dust, crushing mildew, rotting furniture. She was sure she could recognize all the various stages of abandonment, but this was different, strange. The mansion hadn't disintegrated over the years, chipping away into nothing. Instead, everything was scattered everywhere. The bricks and stones lay in jagged broken pieces. Furniture was destroyed, splintered apart. The house didn't look like it had fallen into disrepair, forgotten by its owner. It looked like it had been violently ripped apart, destroyed in one fell swoop.
The atmosphere clung to her, heavy with anxiety and fear. Her chest tightened the further she went, her lungs constricting slowly. She stopped every dozen or so steps to remind herself how to take a deep breath. She looked over to Pan, a small figure on the far side of the estate. He picked through the rocks, seeming not to be feeling the same way she was. She wanted to throttle him. Nothing ever affected him.
She picked up her pace, moving through the rubble quickly. She wanted to leave. Recklessly, she overturned furniture with her boots. Her fingers screamed in the cold as she picked up damp, crumpling sheets of paper too destroyed to read. She tossed them aside, but the cold still lay over her fingers like a thick slime.
With her heart thrumming in her ears, she moved quickly through the rubbling, scanning the ruins. The wind whipped around her and it was so cold, so petrifying it knocked the air out of her lungs. Her chest constricted and her blood became a distant roar in her ears. She felt something clawing its way up and out of her throat, unstoppable.
Every heartbeat was deafening and every breath was a struggle. She had to leave now, she had to get out. Abandoning her rubble, she turned and fixed her eyes upon the horses. They would offer her calm, the brush of their breath in her hair would loosen her chest and slow her heart.
Out, out, out. It ran through her head at a deafening volume. Out, out, out. She zeroed in on the horses and picked up her skirts, her feet skipping over rocks and stones. She would be there soon. Soon, she would be able to think, to fight down that awful feeling tearing its way through her and—-
Something caught her foot and she fell forward, her wrists barking out in pain as she landed heavily amongst the rubble. Stones dug into her body, shredded furniture tearing at her hair, her skin. The damp ground seeped into her, soaking her dress, her cloak, every layer she had tugged on.
Gritting her teeth, she propped herself up on her elbows. She had to keep moving, she had to—
"Wendy?"
She jerked up immediately, looking around. She could have sworn someone had said her name. She looked over to where she had last seen Pan. He had his back turned to her, looking through something she couldn't make out; she knew he hadn't called.
Shaking her head, she turned herself over into a sitting position.
It must have been the wind.
She swallowed, her heart drumming in her ears and her hands shaking. Her ribs were about to strangle her lungs.
But then it came again, over the wind and the roar in her ears.
"Wendy?"
It wasn't the howl of the wind.
No.
It was a voice; a voice she knew. That she had spent the last hundred years imagining.
She whipped around, stumbling to her feet, her head whipping in every direction to find the source.
"Wendy?"
It came a third time. This time she knew it was real.
She stood and turned around and there he was.
"Gavin!" she exclaimed, rushing towards the boy. He looked just as he had all those decades ago. Small and bright, his chubby cheeks were pink and soft, his blue eyes were big and his hair fell around his small face in golden curls. He was dressed in a white shirt with green overalls, clean and unharmed. He looked so alive.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a voice reminded her that it made no sense at all. She shoved it violently aside. Nothing was going to keep her from her child.
Her legs couldn't carry her fast enough as she closed the distance between her and Gavin, arms outstretched. But as soon as she was only a few paces away, he tilted his head and his expression changed, shifting from love and excitement to something darker, something that made her chest constrict, her breathing shallow and her heart stutter.
His eyes flashed. She pulled up short, falling to her knees. "Gavin, darling, what's wrong?" He stood at arms length, unmoving, looking at her reproachfully.
"You were there," he said, "when they came for me."
Blood rushed in her ears and it was hard to get a breath in.
"Gavin, I'm so sorry. I—"
"I called for you, but you didn't come." His lips quivered and his eyes were glassy.
A sob choked her and she reached from him. "I'm so sorry, honey." There was no excuse. None. How could she not have awoken to his cries?
She was his mother.
Had he spent his last moments wondering if she had ever cared? Pan had never cared for him and now… did he believe she didn't either? His life had been so short, so brutal. Had he known he was loved? Had he truly ever been loved?
"You should have protected me."
Her throat was raw as she shoved down a sob. "I should have, I should have." She reached out to him, but he took a step back, snatching his hands away.
He looked so young, so small, so terrified.
"I love you," she said, reaching out of him again. "Come here, darling. I won't let anything happen to you ever again."
"Pan didn't love me, but you listened to him." His eyes were wide and shining. He blinked and tears slid down his cheeks. She wanted to grab him, to sweep him up to his arms, to take him so far away from this place. "I thought you loved me, but you didn't protect me."
"I do love you!" she protested. She reached out to him, leaning forward, but he swiftly stepped back, with a grace so unlike a child. She fell forward, landing on her hands, her arms twisting in pain. She crawled forward, but he stepped back again. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "Please come here."
Tears streamed down her face. She wanted to hold him to her chest, to wipe those tears away. She wanted him to laugh and smile and giggle. She wanted him to have everything a child should.
Her child.
She should have been able to console him… to protect him.
Terror seized her chest, her lungs, her throat. She took a shallow breath, her stomach churning and her heart slamming in her ribs.
"Please, come here."
"No," Gavin said, taking a step back. She lunged for him, but as her fingers brushed his shoulder, he transformed. Suddenly, all that was there was his lifeless body, bloody and broken. He lay crumpled on the earth before her, pale and distant. With shaking hands, she gathered him up in her arms as she had done so long ago. She rocked him back and forth, weeping.
"Please, come back. Please, come back," she begged over and over. She only knew she had been screaming it when her throat became ragged and it hurt to draw breath.
Distantly, something was shaking her. Strong hands were trying to pry Gavin away from her.
No.
She was unsure if she had simply thought it or screeched it as she pushed away those hands, that figure. A body thudded into the earth behind her and then was scrambling back. She allowed one hand to leave Gavin as she smacked those hands away.
A soft hum was turning into an irritating buzzing. Far away, someone was yelling. Yelling her name.
No.
But they wouldn't listen. And again, she was cleaved from Gavin.
XXX
When Peter heard the screaming, he thought for a moment that it must have been the wind howling through the mountains. But he paused, listening for a second more, and realized that the screams were filled with anguished, heartbroken sobs. He knew those screams. Instantly, he dropped the book he had been examining and bolted towards Wendy, leaping over boulders and overturned furniture.
His heart dropped in his chest when he saw her off in the distance. She was huddled over an imp, cradling it. It was grey and haggard, clawing at her. She rocked it tenderly and wept bitterly.
As he sprinted towards her, he screamed for her to let go of the creature, to get out of the way. But he knew it was no good. With shaking hands, he finally reached her and tried to pry her away from the thing. He shook her, begging her to snap out of it.
"No!" she screeched, whipping around and shoving him back with all her might. He was so surprised she had even had the sense to push him, he tumbled back, falling into the mud and the rubble. But he wouldn't let Wendy stop him.
He scrambled back to her and shook her again.
"Wendy, let go!" he ordered, trying to quell the shaking of his voice, his hands, his body.
A hand flew back and smacked him squarely across the jaw. His skin stung, prickling along his cheek.
"Wendy, snap out of it!" Belatedly, he realized his voice was hoarse and every word scraped along his throat as he said it. Had he been yelling this entire time?
Reaching around Wendy, he took hold of the creature by the shoulders, unhooking its claws from her dress and wrenched it away. They both let out a howl of anger and before he knew it, both of them were upon him. The imp trying to scramble back onto Wendy, to suck her dry and Wendy, screaming, cursing at him.
Taking a second, he took a deep breath. The imp was not concerned with him and didn't slam its fists down onto his chest or screech at him like Wendy was. It would be easier and much less harmful to knock it back. Curling his fist, he reached deep within himself and found the sliver of magic he had left. With all his might, he blasted it away, flinging it a few yards off, skidding through the ruins.
For a moment, relief swept through him. He had bough himself a few seconds.
Wendy still wailed at him like a banshee, kneeling over him, shaking him.
He grabbed her hands in one of his hand sat up in one smooth motion. With the other, he grabbed her chin and held it tightly in place.
"I was the only one!" she cried, her voice so loud it made his head vibrate. Tears streamed down her face and her hair was a rat's nest. Deep circles bruised under her eyes and her skin was waxy and thin, he could see her blue veins underneath. He had never seen her so fragile.
"Wendy, look at me," he said, trying to keep his voice calm and cool. Like the normal Peter Pan. The one impervious to any kind of emotion, but his heart hammered in his chest and his breath was caught in his throat.
For a moment, she stilled and her warm eyes focused on him. She scanned his face and blinked. Recognition bloomed and she pulled back, fear marring her features. She cried out again, this time a whimper, a plea.
He tried to pretend that his heart didn't twist in his chest when she looked at him like that.
He tugged on her hands, bringing them to his chest and drawing her closer to him. "I'm not the one you need to be afraid of here."
She wasn't listening. "I was the only one," she repeated, her words almost incoherent through her sobs.
"That thing over there is an imp," he told her calmly, smoothly, like he was telling her about the next mansion. "It's feeding on your fear." He paused and she just whimpered. "I'm going to kill it and we're going to get out of here."
She burst into tears again. "No! Not again!"
He didn't have time for this. Hysterical Wendy was impossible to deal with on a good day, but now she was beyond any reason. Shaking his head, he pulled her to her feet and commanded, "Do not get in my way."
"Bastard," was her only reply.
He turned just as he saw the imp bounding back towards them. It had tripled in size, its sinewy muscles thicker and stronger, rippling under its grey, leathery skin. Its face was one large maw, opening up to rows and rows of jagged yellow teeth. It bellowed again and from behind him, Wendy lurched forward. He pushed her backwards just as the imp came upon him, roaring in his face, spit flying everywhere.
He wrestled it, yanking its claws from his shoulders and pushing it off himself. It only gave him a moment's reprieve to reach deep within himself, down into the depths, to pull at a thread of magic. He tugged on it, yanking it up with all his strength. It followed his desperate plea and that familiar warmth returned to his hands, glowing green in the grey ruins.
He lashed out as the creature bounded past him towards Wendy, who had gotten to her knees and was slowly crawling towards them. The magic caught it, snapping hold of it. It glowed green, blindingly, for a moment, before bursting into an acrid, grey-green dust in front of Wendy.
All was silent for a long moment. No wind blew through the mountains. Wendy did not cry and Peter held his breath. Then Wendy blinked and screamed again, pawing at the dust. Swiftly, he stood and pulled her up. She thrashed against him, swearing like a sailor.
"You fucking bastard," she cursed. "You took him from me again!" She clawed at his cloak, his sweater. He held her shoulders tightly as she screamed, "I was the only one and you took him!"
His hands slipped from her shoulders to hold her face. "Wendy," he tried to say as calmly as possible, trying to become like Wendy reading over Gavin, tender and gentle, "that wasn't him."
She paused for a moment, terror still lighting up her eyes. Although she had stopped thrashing, she was shaking violently in his hands, and he didn't know if it was from the cold or the fear.
He hoped she had at least heard him. He waited for another breath, two, three-
"You lied to me!" she shrieked. "You lied to him!"
He ground his teeth. "That wasn't real."
"Yes, it was!"
"You're hysterical."
"I hate you!"
He rolled his eyes. "Old news," he said. The cold was pawing at him now, his fingers and toes already numb. Cracking himself open, he found the last few dregs of his power. In a blink, he transported them both to the horses. He let go of her.
"Get on the horse." His patience and strength were wearing thin.
Her eyes darted between him and the horses. He knew she wanted to leave.
Tears were still streaming down her face, leaving tracks through the dust of the imp. Her skin was translucent and near-white, her golden hair now dull and grey hanging around her face in matted curls. She was shaking under her muddy, ripped dress and cloak.
"I'll help you up if you want," he offered.
"No," she said. She turned and made her way over to Ash.
"I meant Philipe. You won't be able to make the ride on your own the way you are," he said slowly, as if he were talking to a child.
"No."
Stubborn and hysterical. What a combination.
"Then you can enjoy falling off Ash when you pass out," he told her.
"Better than being anywhere near you," she said, her voice thin, its undercurrent acidic.
He watched her pull herself up onto Ash, her hands shaking. She slipped multiple times before finally managing to haul herself up. With his eyes still on her, he swung up onto Philipe. He decided that should she begin to fall from Ash, he would use the very last slivers of his magic to keep her up right until they got to camp.
XXX
He used his magic to keep her up right after fifteen minutes. Up ahead of him, she still shook from the cold and he could hear her choked sobs over the wind. Something cold and sickening settled in the pit of his stomach as he watched her, shivering, hunched over, crying over an illusion.
This was not the Wendy he knew. Wendy was strong and bright, unshakeable. Seeing her so close to breaking was… he searched for the word, the feeling… terrifying. It was terrifying to see her like this.
He didn't just hate how she looked at him, he feared those looks.
All these weeks, she had been terrified and so had he. What could shake Wendy down to her core like that? What had…
I was the only one.
Those imps fed off fear and grief. He didn't need to be told that she had seen Gavin in the imp. He knew it without even having to think about it. She had been his mother, after all. He knew Gavin was always in the back of her mind, as Gavin was in his.
After a while, the crying stopped and she slumped forward onto Ash.
I was the only one.
What did she mean she was the only one? He had been Gavin's parent, too: took care of him, fixed his scrapes, comforted him when he cried… loved him. He understood her grief, her unending love for him. He had been a parent who had lost a child, too. She knew that, right?
As if I would try to talk down some crazy woman.
Did she not know that he had loved him? Had that made her doubt?
They arrived at the camp just as the sky began to turn into a deep, velvety grey above them. Wind swept up and over the mountains, tearing through both of them. He got off Philipe and began to set up the camp, his fingers stiff and numb. Without magic, it took far longer than normal for him to build the fire and he wouldn't be able to keep the wind out and without Wendy's help, he had to walk the half hour round trip to fill their pot with water and even longer before it was boiling.
As he set up the tent and bedrolls, he glanced over his shoulder at her, slumped forward on Ash, shiveriing and blue-lipped, completely unconscious.
You lied to me. You lied to him.
Did she think that she had been the only one who loved Gavin?
He had acted like Margaret's grief was ridiculous. Like he couldn't even be bothered to care enough to try and understand.
His blood turned into ice in his veins and his gut twisted violently.
She had spent all these weeks thinking that she had been the only one who loved Gavin. She had grieved their child's life all over again, thinking that there had been only one person who had ever loved him. The safety and love Gavin had believed in hadn't been all real. She believed he had experienced so little love in his short life, that one of the two people he believed in had never loved him back.
It was a terrifying thought. Something that had rocked a foundation she had relied upon: the Peter had been capable of love and had given it to their child.
He understood that terrified look in Wendy's eyes now. And he hated it even more.
How could he have been so stupid? How had he not known?
He had spent decades with her, knew her and how her mind worked, how feelings reached so deep inside her soul.
How had he been able to feel annoyed with her when her teeth chattered? Felt irritated when she distanced herself from him? Of course she had. How else was she supposed to continue on with this journey when the very sight of him caused her so much terror and grief?
He had been selfish with his magic… with everything.
He dutifully ignored the Neverland boy king that tried to remind him that the great Peter Pan did not have compassion on others, was not moved by their despair. This is Wendy was the only reasoning he needed to ignore those thoughts.
Gently, he took her down off of Ash. She shook violently against him, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from her encounter with the imp, perhaps both. Her skin was pale, icy to the touch and her eyes were closed tightly.
He sat her up in front of the fire, wrapping her in blankets. He took a cloth, dipped it water and wiped off the imp dust from her face gently. She grumbled against his touch, eyes still closed, but he knew she wouldn't want to sleep in the filth.
"Go change and then go to bed," he said, shaking her shoulder gently. She waved away his hands, but got up and went into the tent to change.
Too tired to hunt, he gulped down some hot broth, scalding his throat and tore into a dry piece of bread that tasted like ash in his mouth. He sat by the fire for a while, the guilt sitting heavy in his stomach like a stone. He was stupid for not having figured out sooner why Wendy had been so upset for so long. He should have known. Much as she drove him up a wall, he didn't want her thinking that he never cared for Gavin. Gavin was loved by both of them. She didn't deserve that.
Groggy, he went into the tent, bringing her a cup of broth. She was still shivering under all the blankets, looking small under all of it. He touched her shoulder. "Wendy, sit up. I brought you something to eat."
She batted his hands away, eyes barely opening. "Bastard," she cursed, his voice cracking and thin.
"I'm trying to help," he said, trying to remain calm. He tried to prop her up high enough to gulp down the soup. Instead, she turned and shoved at him blinding, spilling the boiling broth all over him.
Irritation bubbled up inside of him. "Fine! Starve"
He forgot his guilt, his regret. It was so much easier to be irritated with her than to admit he felt anything. He cursed under his breath as he tried to clean himself. If he had had his powers, he would have been able to dry himself quickly, but instead he had to huddle by the fire like some kind of urchin.
He sat beside the fire a long while, tending it, thinking about how annoying Wendy was before sleep began to tug at him. He stalked back into the tent and was about to climb into his bedroll when he paused. The tent was silent, the familiar sound of Wendy's chattering teeth gone.
His blood turned cold in his veins as he fell to his knees, scrambling over Wendy. He felt for her pulse. It was there, but her skin was cold and clammy to the touch. She barely responded when he poked and prodded at her. In the darkness, he could see how pale her skin was and how her eyelashes fluttered in the darkness.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He cursed under his breath. He had left her in her grief for weeks, and now he had left her in the cold.
He really was a bastard.
"Move over," he told her. "I'm getting in." She grumbled and the sound was just above a whisper. "You'll die," he told her. She gave one more grumble of a protest before shifting over.
Swallowing, he got into the bed roll with her. He wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her arms and hands, trying to get her to heat up. She was mortal. Neverland wasn't around anymore to keep her alive.
He had done this. He had allowed this, all of this, to happen.
He held her tightly against him, rubbing her back, trying to warm her up. He continued when his hands hands cramped and then his arms. After what seemed like hours, she began shivering again. She shook violently against him, but he breathed a sigh of relief.
She curled her icy hands into the wool of his sweater. He tucked her in closer to him, putting his chin on the top of her head. His eyelids grew heavy and eventually he drifted off to sleep.
Hours later, he woke up. Wendy was still in his arms, but was no longer shivering. He touched her forehead and blessedly, it was warm. They were out of the woods for now. He sighed and felt the tension leave his body.
From the stillness of the night came, "That wasn't real, was it?'
He craned his neck, trying to look down at Wendy. He could barely make out her features in the dark, but he knew that her eyes were trained on him. Her hands were still curled into his sweater and she clung to him. He wasn't sure if it was for warmth or for comfort.
"No, it wasn't. It was an—"
"Imp. I know," she said. Her voice was thin. "Baelfire told me about them." Perhaps if they weren't in such dire straights, he might have quipped that she didn't need to bother asking the question if she already knew the answer. He might have teased her for being a know-it-all.
"I should have suspected that was why the estate was abandoned." He turned away and looked up at the top of the tent.
"No. There could have been hundreds of reasons." Her response sounded like an almost acceptance of his almost apology.
"You saw Gavin." It wasn't a question; it didn't need to be a question.
"Yes." Her voice shook when she answered.
He turned to look at her. He could barely see her face in the dark, but he knew that she was looking at him warily, with the fear in her eyes that he had come to hate.
"I loved him," he blurted. If he allowed himself to think too much about it, he wouldn't have said it. "I loved him then and I love him now. Just as much as you."
She was quiet for so long he thought she had fallen back to sleep. "I thought I was the only one."
"And it terrified you." She turned to look up at him, eyes clear. She nodded. "You thought I lied." She nodded. She sniffed once. Twice. His hand was aching to touch her cheek, to wipe at her eyes. He didn't want to just give her warmth. "I was just as much his parent as you were. You don't ever need to doubt that I loved him. Ever."
She closed her eyes tightly and swallowed.
"Know that every time you think of him, I'm thinking of him, too." His hand brushed against the small of her back, his knuckles rubbing lazy circles.
She opened her eyes and they shone in the dim light. "I'm not the only one."
He knew that she wanted him to reassure her and so he did. "No." He swallowed. He had to say this now or he might never have the nerve to do it again. He didn't want to regret leaving something unsaid. "I'm sorry I made you feel that way. And I'm sorry I didn't figure it out sooner."
He didn't want her to accept his apology. He didn't need her, too. He only needed to say it, to make amends. The knot of guilt and regret untied in his stomach.
She hummed a sigh that almost sounded like she was pleased.
Wendy shifted closer to him, her fingers clenching and unclenching in his sweater. His fingers curled into her hair. A deep calm settled over him and he felt sleep beginning to pull at—
"It should have been skin-to-skin."
He blinked and shifted, trying to look down at Wendy. "What?"
"For hypothermia," she said. "To warm someone up, it works better if it's skin-to-skin." Here she was back from the brink of death correcting him.
"Would you have liked if I had stripped both of us down?" he retorted. His chest felt flimsy as his heart fluttered uncontrollable. This was the first time she had spoken to him like herself in weeks.
I missed you. Stupidly, he almost said it.
"It wouldn't have been sexual. It would have been to save my life," she said primly.
A grin tugged at the end of his mouth. "I'll remember that for next time," he quipped.
She paused. "There won't be a next time."
He looked down at her and said with as much sincerity as possible, "There won't. I'll make sure of it."