Peter had been staring at the spell for well over an hour.
His blood slowly turned to ice as he read the lines over and over again.
He wouldn't have even have considered touching this spell, even in his most desperate, reckless moments. It called upon deep, ancient magic that was far too old to try and tame. Even just casting the spell would have deeply harmed anyone who was not ridiculously powerful.
Baelfire was a fucking idiot.
And he and Wendy were absolutely fucked.
Even without going through the notes and the spells and the books they have collected over the past eight months, he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that there was no spell out there that could undo what Baelfire had done. No spell that was meant to undo this. No spell that was powerful enough to undo this. There was simply no reversing it.
All these months had been for nothing.
He was finally able to rip his eyes away from the page and turn to look at Wendy, who sat with her head in her hand, hair spilling out around her, completely engrossed in whatever it was that she was reading.
He pressed his lips together.
He didn't want to break her peace, what little amount she had.
Perhaps, he could toss the book into the fire and pretend he had never seen it. He could say that it wasn't the spell Baelfire used. He could claim that he had simply just lost the ability to read. There were millions of lies that he could have made up that a few short months ago would have rolled off his tongue so easily and he wouldn't have given a second thought to it.
Now, the words were caught in his throat and he was caught between a lie and the truth, neither of which were any good.
Slowly, he stood and circled the table, book in hand. He took several halting steps before he was standing over Wendy, who looked up at him, annoyed and frustrated. It was strange to look at her in that moment, to know that he was about to break her peace, the normal routine they had fallen into. He took a long moment to look at her, to save the image of her before he broke her heart.
"I want you to know I could simply not tell you about this," he said after it had become clear that it was weird he wasn't talking.
"You could simply not tell me about most things," she said, irritated, most certainly still pissed off from their last conversation. God, he much preferred Wendy angry over her miserable.
"I could just turn around and not tell you," he said, cryptic and stupid. "If you want."
She gave him a confused look that made him feel like a complete idiot. "Are you going to tell me what's going on or are you just going to keep talking in circles?"
He crouched beside her and almost pleadingly said, "You can be blissfully ignorant if you'd like. I can do that for you."
She looked down at him, even more confused. Even a little concerned for his sanity. "I'm not sure why you're giving me these options as if you care," she said tightly. "Just stop talking in circles and tell me what's going on." Her voice was forceful, a queen without a kingdom or army to lead, just Peter trailing after her.
He took a deep breath and stood, placing the book over top of hers, open to the spell Baelfire used. He tapped the page and inclined his head, telling her to read. She gave him a wary look before turning and poring over the page. He wanted impatiently for several minutes on pins and needles, until she finally turned back to him and said, "That's not the spell he used." He knew she meant it as a statement, but it came out like a question.
"It has to be. It fits all of what we know," he said, solemnly.
"No," she said, vehemently, but he could tell from the set of her shoulders, the tremor in her voice, that she knew it was the spell they had been looking for all this time.
"It is, bird," he said, trying to be calm for her.
"It can't be," she said, turning to look up at him, eyes glassy. "This spell is too dangerous to even consider using." She shook her head and looked down. "This… If he used this, it would have been a suicide mission."
"It's what he used."
She stood abruptly from her chair and began to rummage through her notes on the other end of the table. She flipped through notebooks and pages at such an alarming pace that Peter was sure she would get a paper cut, bloody her hands, all to prove that her brother hadn't done something so self-destructive, so completely stupid and reckless.
Peter caught her elbow and turned her to face him. "I'm very sorry, but this is the spell he used. There's no possibility it isn't and there's no possibility of reversing it." He said all the words slowly, softly, so that she could process them, so that they wouldn't seem so scary.
"It isn't," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
His hands slipped up her arms and cupped her face. "It is," he said.
Her hands gripped his wrists, terrified, tears welling in her eyes as she said, "I don't want it to be."
"I know," he said. He leaned forward and kissed the crown of her head and hoped that he might be able to make her feel just a little bit better, a little bit more hopeful, a little bit safer. She leaned into him, her hands finding their way to his sweater, curling her hands into it, pulling him into her. Her hair tickled his neck and chin, but he was glad to have her in his arms again.
He much preferred Wendy close over Wendy angry.
But moments like that could only last so long.
She was rearing back from him before he even knew what was happening.
"What are—What the fuck is this?" she said, shoving at him. She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "You were being an asshole an hour ago."
"You weren't exactly being kind either," he countered.
Her cheeks grew red and she floundered for words. "You—you're—" She let out an exasperated gasp. "I can't do this." She was turning on her heel before he could get any word out and had disappeared behind the stacks before he even had enough sense to go after her.
XXX
Wendy only let herself cry when she got back to the room.
She closed the door behind her and slid down it, her head falling into her hands, tears streaming down her face, sobs shaking her body. She let it all wash over her, remember each each terrifying stanza of the spell, each horrifying line, each blood-curdling word.
There was no hope in finding a spell to reverse that.
Baelfire had used something so ancient, so powerful that no spell in existence could undo what he had done.
She lay in a ball on the floor weeping, mourning, all that had been lost to her.
XXX
Hours later, she managed to pull herself up off the floor and into a chair, wrapping herself in a silken blanket that was too nice to be comforting and stared at the fireplace.
Her eyes were dry now, her tears leaving salty trails across her cheeks. She still shook, with grief, with fear, as she curled in on herself.
In her head was just a rushing sound, of falling backwards into a great, large hole and falling endlessly into the blackness.
XXX
She wasn't sure when but Pan returned to the room. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't come and pester her. He simply slipped a plate of buttered bread onto the coffee table before her and left her there.
XXX
Sometime during the night, her mind started working again.
Thoughts came slipping in slowly, fragmented and stunted.
At first, all she could think of was Baelfire, of what he was like as a child, what it was like to play with him. She remembered him as an adult, salt and pepper hair, a smile with crinkles around his eyes, the smell of his cologne, the rumble of his laugh, the silly things he would say, the love she felt for him.
How could this be?
How could she let this go?
How could he simply just… go?
Her mind raced through all the spells, all the notes she had taken. Every single avenue she considered, she came up with nothing.
XXX
At some point in the evening her mind drifted back to Pan explaining what had happened to Baelfire.
She could hear Pan's voice echoing in her mind.
The price of the spell was another life.
The two became one.
Baelfire was about to give up his life for his father.
The words, half-remembered, slipped and slid into each other, tumbling in her mind.
Another life.
It repeated and repeated in her mind, on an endless loop, until it morphed and the answer to how could this be? How could she let this go? How could he simply just… go? became:
My life.
XXX
The prospect was scary. The stuff that nightmares were made of. It felt like a boulder was slowly pressing on her soul as she turned the words over again in her head.
My life. My life. My life.
She had been the dutiful sister for decades. Had been bound to an island just for her brother. Had left her comfortable life for her brother. Had made a deal with her enemy for her brother.
Had her life not always been careening towards this since the very beginning?
Had her life not always been this… unfair?
XXX
Time slipped away from her. Ran forward and back and before she knew it she was across the table from Pan. Annoyed and irritated, her belly full and the room warm around her, filled with the bustle of other dinner guests, the murmurs of their voices and the clink of cutlery.
Somehow, for some reason, the memory was pleasant.
Pan was leaning forward, grinning, a glass in hand and clinking it with hers, saying something that she couldn't quite make out.
The memory repeated itself and she strained each time until she finally heard, "Cheers to living your life the way you want. May you always remember that your life is your own."
His words gave her hope, a luxurious, sumptuous thing that she could fall into easily, that she could cuddle into like a bed and throw the covers over her, safe and happy.
XXX
When the memory faded, the guilt set in.
Was her life her own? Had it not always been meant for her family, for those she loved?
She shook herself and found she was shaking her head, in real life, sitting on a chair, covered in a cold blanket, staring into a dark room.
And no matter how long she sat there, shaking, the sense that this was unfair never left her.
XXX
Pan came when the room had lightened and weak light filtered in. He put a bowl in front of her, porridge with syrup and berries, and a steaming hot cup of tea. He stood for a long moment and she suspect he was waiting for her to eat something, but she couldn't muster the strength, the energy.
She heard him curse distantly before he sat on the coffee table and glared at the bowl of oatmeal before taking a spoonful out of it and putting it in front of her face.
"I'm not a child," she croaked.
"Then eat." His voice wasn't warm and affectionate, but it was not unkind.
She opened her mouth and ate, allowing him to spoon feed her for the first few bites and then she ate the rest of it on her own, with him still watching her like a hawk. He then lifted the teacup to her and she drank it all down in a few gulps.
The food in her belly and the warmth seeping into her body made her feel more real, more solid, which in turn made everything more painful.
She felt everything, in detail and colour.
She only realized that she had been crying when Pan wiped at her cheeks gently.
She batted away his hands, but he remained by her throughout the day, lounging on a couch, a novel in hand. She wasn't sure if he read aloud like he did on the ship, lost in her thoughts, but his presence was something she wouldn't deny herself.
XXX
Wendy remained catatonic the whole day and well into the next.
Peter stayed by her the whole time. Sometimes, he tried to get her to eat but he wasn't nearly as successful after that first bowl of porridge. Other times, he read aloud from novels. Other times, he simply dozed.
He wasn't entirely sure whether or not he should pester her.
This was so much worse than the last time she had been incredibly upset. And besides that, he didn't know what to do this time. He didn't know how to solve this, how to make things better. No spell existed that could undo what Baelfire had done to himself.
Behind her, on the bed, he laid out all their notes and stood with hands on his hips trying to figure out a way that to undo the spell, but they had yet to come across something that would ever rival the kind of power, deep and dark, that the spell called upon.
He looked over their earliest notes, memories of the early days floating in his head, that now, after all these months, he looked back on fondly. He almost wished he could go back, to the playful bickering and the long, winding conversations about spells and magic.
He should have savoured it more, appreciated it more.
Eventually, he had to turn away from the spells, frustrated and without any other answers besides difficult ones. He returned to sit across from Wendy as she stared blankly towards the windows. It was well into the evening of their second day. He couldn't very well bring her back to the mainland like that. Or at least, that's what he would tell her if she questioned why he was so worried about her.
Not because she had barely uttered a word into nearly two days. Not because her skin was pale and translucent. Not because the warmth and sharpness had gone out of her eyes. Not because it terrified him to see her like this.
He came and sat on the coffee table in front of her. She eyed him cautiously, but didn't say anything, returning her gaze to the window. He straightened and considered if maybe having this discussion after she ate, or slept, or even washed herself might be a brighter idea, but that seemed like a lot of things to ask of Wendy.
"Baelfire read that spell, too, you know," he finally said.
She gave him an unimpressed look and he could practically hear her say I'm aware in that know-it-all voice he used to hate.
"He read it and understood it. He didn't go into it unaware of the consequences. It came as no surprise to him that a life was required in exchange for that kind of magic," he continued as she looked at him warily. "He did this to himself and he's the only one responsible for his actions."
She shook her head. "He's my brother," she croaked, her voice raspy and dry.
"That does not make you responsible for his actions."
She let out a huff that he guessed under normal circumstances would have been a scoff. "Easy for you to say."
It stung to hear her say that, even if she was telling the truth.
He tilted his head to the side, considering whether he should tell her about when he was an older sibling. He traced the lines of her and said, after a long pause, "I tried for a really long time to be responsible completely for Rumplestiltskin." He had never told her about what life had been like before he had become Peter Pan, back when he was mortal like her and he had a different name. "My mother died when I was young and my father couldn't handle it. He drank himself stupid and abandoned us soon after."
She looked at him, eyebrows furrowed, with a curious expression on her face. This was the first thing in days that seemed to hold her attention at all so he continued.
"I was the sole provider and protector," he recounted. "If he needed something, I got it for him. If he screwed something up, I fixed it. My life was dedicated to him entirely." His eyes drifted to the drapes around the windows, remembering that life from eons ago. "I hadn't asked for it. Hadn't been prepared for it. And I hated it. The love that I had once felt for him disintegrated and before I knew it he was no longer my brother, but my burden. And I was not about to toss my life away for a burden."
"He was still your brother," she said softly.
"I'm aware, Wendy," he said, annoyed. "But that word lost all meaning to me. I just wanted to live my life as if it were my own, not his. I couldn't tolerate anything else."
"It wouldn't have been fair," she interjected.
He nodded. "So while I, now, upon reflection, do not condone my actions, I can't say that I disagree with the belief that one's life is one's own." He turned at looked at her. Her face remained neutral and he was having trouble figuring out just what was going on inside that head of hers. "I started off with that belief, but you seem to not have gotten it through that head of yours yet."
A hand flew to her mouth and suddenly she was sobbing and he wasn't quite sure what do other than lurch towards her. His hands awkwardly found her face and he tried to wipe at the tears but they just kept coming.
She batted his hands away. "Stop, stop. I don't—" she took a shaky breath "—I shouldn't be taking life lessons from you. I shouldn't—" a sob that made his heart wrench in his chest "—listen to what you have to say. To—to assuage my guilt."
"What?" he asked, confused, hands on the arm rests of her chair.
She wiped at her eyes and looked at him. "I want my life to be my own. I want it to be that way."
He shook his head, horrified. "It already is. You just need to believe it."
"If I try, there's this—" she pressed on her chest "—horrible guilt. If I just let this be, then what? He suffers endlessly while I do whatever I please?"
"You're talking as if it's his life or yours—"
"Because it is," she nearly shrieked. She let out a strangled sob and put her face in her hands.
Peter pushed himself off the armrest, straightening, understanding finally what she meant. The spell demanded a life in exchange for the magic that Baelfire had used. If Wendy traded in her life, Baelfire would be restored.
He took her head in her hands and not too gently turned her to face him. She continued to sob as he said, forcefully, through bared teeth, "You are not giving up your life for him." He enunciated each word, clearly, pointedly.
She wasn't the slightest bit phased by his ferocity, the fierceness of his words. "What else is there?" she cried. "If I don't save him, what else is there? I could save him but I didn't? How could I live with myself?"
Peter wanted to laugh. "Take a page out of my book and put yourself first."
She reared up and struggled out of his grasp. "I don't want to be like you," she said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "Cruel and uncaring and detached."
"When you're calmer, we'll talk about why you think those are the three most important adjectives to describe me, but what I'm actually advising is for you to be, perhaps, a little more selfish. So, one of your main attributes can be selfless instead of suicidally selfless," he quipped.
"Then what? I just let this be? Let him live like this?"
"You act as if this is only your responsibility. There are others out there who care for him and for Gold: Michael, John, Belle. I have also signed onto this asinine endeavour for some ridiculous reason," he said. "You are in a much better position that I ever was. This isn't your responsibility to carry on your own."
She closed her eyes and tears slipped down her cheeks. "I want my own life. I don't want to give it up for him."
"Then don't," he said, softly this time. She wiped at her eyes and gave him a long look. "I'd also like to point out that I don't think he'd even accept your life in exchange for his. Your other brothers wouldn't either." He paused, considering the stupid thing he was about to say, but thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.
She chewed on his words, oblivious to what he had been thinking.
"Will you eat something? Or bathe? Or sleep? Perhaps all three?"
She paused and looked at him seriously. "I can't just let him be."
"I know, but exchanging your life for his is not the answer," he said, trying to sound as kind as possible but it was something that was foreign to him.
"I don't want it to be."
"Then don't let it be."
She looked at him for a long moment. "I never would have thought I'd take advice like this from you," she said, sounding strange, almost nostalgic. He waited for her to say something about not listening to someone so cruel, uncaring, and detached, but instead she said, "But I also somehow can't imagine it being anyone else but you."
He knew what she meant. Exactly.
"So that means you'll take it then? You'll act like your life is your own?"
She nodded.
He felt like kissing her, but held himself back. "Then you," he reached over and grabbed a menu, "can decide what you'd like to order for dinner for some room service and I'll start your bath because you do not smell particularly wonderful right now."
He handed her the menu, but before he could stand up to go, she took his hands in hers, bowed her head, kissed them, reverently, her lips ghosting over each pale, callused knuckle. He stood completely still as she looked up at him and said, "Thank you."
XXX
"I want my own life." A hot tear slipped down Wendy's cheek. Followed by another and another. "I don't want to give it up for him."
She had thought that when she said those words, that perhaps the world would fall apart, the ground would crumble beneath her. That she would crack and finally become the failure she was meant to be, a selfish sister who only cared about herself. Maybe, she would feel her brothers' hearts breaking, feel betrayal grip them, cold and sharp.
But instead, with Pan's cold gaze on her, she just felt calm and steady. Safe.
There was no judgement in his eyes. No accusations of betrayal or selfishness. Simply acceptance and understanding. It was not warm or overly affectionate, just given to her because it was what he was supposed to give her.
"Then don't," he said, simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She searched his face and wasn't sure exactly what she was looking for. "I'd also like to point out that I don't think he'd even accept your life in exchange for his. Your other brothers wouldn't either."
In the mad rush to save her brothers, she often forgot that they cared about and loved her as much as she loved them. She had been trapped on an island for Baelfire for over a century, but Michael and John had given up their lives to Pan for nearly as long just for her.
"Will you eat something? Or bathe? Or sleep? Perhaps all three?" Pan's voice brought her back to the present.
She wasn't done with this just yet. "I can't just let him be."
"I know, but exchanging your life for his is not the answer."
"I don't want it to be."
"Then don't let it be." His voice was quiet, but his words were fierce, almost demanding. His kindness came out crude, oddly shaped and jagged, but she wouldn't have wanted anything else. She didn't want smooth, soft reassurances. In fact, she didn't want anything else from anyone else but Peter.
Looking at him then, she was struck by him, beautiful and wicked; cruel, uncaring and detached, but deeply emotional and intelligent, fierce and stubborn. He was who he was and for some cruel and wonderful reason, unfair as it was, she wouldn't want him any other way.
"I never would have thought I'd take advice like this from you," she finally said, after a long moment. She scanned his face again, wondering just how she was looking at Peter Pan, King of Neverland, and said, "But I also somehow can't imagine it being anyone else but you."
He gave her a long look, warily looking her over before saying, "So, that means you'll take it then? You'll act like your life is your own?"
She nodded.
His lips quirked up and she fought down the urge to grab his face and kiss him. "Then you," he reached over and grabbed a menu before placing it in her lap, "can decide what you'd like to order for dinner for some room service and I'll start your bath because you do not smell particularly wonderful right now."
He stood, gracefully, and made a move to go, but she couldn't let him go just yet. How could she let him walk away without letting him know— Well, she wasn't exactly sure what she wanted him to know at all, but she couldn't let him go.
She grabbed his hands, almost desperately. His skin was cold and smooth against hers. She liked the length of his fingers, the wideness of his palms, the grace in his muscles. If he had been from Earth, he would have made a fine piano player, perhaps one to rival her.
She bent her head and kissed his hands, trying to communicate something she couldn't quite yet put into words. She kissed each knuckle, softly, with affection that suddenly was overflowing.
When she was done, she looked up at him. She was greeted with a neutral face, cool and reserved, but she was not alarmed. She knew him and knew him well enough to know there was something whirring in his mind.
"Thank you."
XXX
Laying in bed, fed, washed and on the verge of sleep, Wendy recalled the time she had stepped on a snail in the garden at their home in London. She hadn't been more than six and had discovered it in the garden, taking it gently from a leaf to examine it closer before it had accidentally slipped from her hands. When she stepped back trying to look for it, she had heard a sickening crunch and knew without looking down that it was her poor snail.
She had been inconsolable for hours and neither Mother nor Father was able to calm her. Nothing could be done to save that snail and so nothing could be done to make her feel any better, but after hours of crying, the pain began to dull and her tears began to dry, and as she was perched on her mother's lap in the sitting room, she could hardly keep her eyes open.
That was how she felt now. Nothing could be done to save Baelfire and nothing could be done to make her feel any better about that, but her tears had dried and Pan had soothed some of the pain and now she could barely keep her eyes open.
The bed creaked and Pan was beside her, the two of them only separated by the wall of pillows. He turned and looked at her. "You look better," he finally said.
She looked at him blearily. "You don't." And it was true, he still looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, his cheekbones a little too sharp. She had a wild thought that she would like to fuss over him and luxuriated in the fantasy of doting on him; baked goods she made to fill his belly, a scarf she knit wrapped around his neck and a kiss on the cheek. Ridiculous things to want to do to your enemy.
She worried that she would blurt out she was sorry and beg for his forgiveness, but before she could say something stupid, she realized he was saying, "I think we should take a break from researching for a bit. Take the last couple days to rest and relax and then try to come up with a plan on the mainland."
She yawned. "What will we do?"
"We're at a resort. There's plenty to do."
She hummed, closing her eyes.
"Do you have any ideas?"
"You suggested it. You plan it."
A small chuckle. "Alright, no complaining about what I choose."
She turned over and pulled the blanket up to her chin. "No promises."