Damnation, Salvation, Fire and Steel

Part Two: Trolls in the Dark

3/4

"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," Pyewacket crooned, beckoning towards Mungojerrie with a threatening index finger. "C'mere and gimme that damn fish before I eat your tail!"

The cat meowed dangerously, fish dangling from his mouth. He puffed his tail up to its biggest puff, flattened his ears and growled again. Pyewacket scowled dangerously as Mungojerrie swung a paw at him before bouncing up to sit on a rocky ledge.

"You dirty little fur ball…it's cats like you that make it so our species don't get along!"

The two had been at it for at least twenty minutes. The group had only been in the cave for forty. Somewhere along the line, Mungojerrie had vanished, only to return with a large fish that he deposited at the boys' feet. Then he had vanished again, and returned with another. It continued like that until Hard-To-Hit had struck a fire, and by then there was quite a display of fish waiting to be cooked and eaten. None of the boys knew where Mungojerrie had gotten the fish, but they didn't question that. They were more than happy to eat what the cat had given them.

Slightly chuckled, watching through half-lidded eyes as Pyewacket continued to chase Mungojerrie around the small cave. Curled up in a tattered blanket he had found and finally warm thanks to the fire Hard-To-Hit made, the boy barely stifled a yawn of exhaustion. It had been, so far, a long day.

Feeling the blonde yawn against his thigh, Billy glanced down from where he leaned back on his palms. "You tired, cully?" he asked softly.

"Uh-huh."

"Me too."

"The salve I gave you should help your wounds," Hard-To-Hit said quietly, coming to sit with them around the fire. He rested his hands on his knees, the firelight casting sorrowful shadows across his face. "But that was the last of it. I didn't have a lot when I left the village, and going back for more would be far too dangerous." He glanced at Slightly. "I am sorry I couldn't find a better blanket. That was all we had left here."

"What is this place, anyway?" Billy asked, letting his eyes run over the faded chalk drawings that covered the walls.

"It was a haven for my people, a place to consult with the spirits of our ancestors," said Hard-To-Hit solemnly. "Long ago, my people would come here to ask the spirits for help and advice. Much as we are, they would sit around a fire, smoke their magic pipe and call upon their ancestors for guidance." He sighed audibly. "But one night, many years before I was born, the spirits stopped answering their calls. Great Big Little Panther was my age then, and he told me his elders tried everything to call them back, but they never came."

A lengthy pause followed this, and the three boys sat watching the fire crackle. Then Slightly spoke. "Has anyone ever tried calling them again?"

The Indian boy shook his head. "No. Great Big Little Panther believes the magic here has died, much as it has in other holy places."

"Died?" Billy asked, his brow creasing. "How can magic die? And didn't you say the spirits abandoned your people?"

"The elders thought they did," Hard-To-Hit replied. "But my father knew better. He was—is, a powerful shaman. The strongest my people have ever seen. He does not need a holy place with which to consult them." He smiled wanly. "Holy places are usually teeming with magic…so much so that there is no need for a barrier between the living and the dead worlds. The magic itself becomes a barrier. More like a silk curtain, though. Spirits can enter the barrier but not cross through it, especially if they themselves had magical tint in life.

But if a holy place is abused, the magic dies. Vanishes in a whisper, like it never was."

"Abused?" Slightly frowned. Hard-To-Hit nodded.

"Yes. Even shamans can only use a certain amount of magic at a time in holy places. To use too much magic at once depletes it forever; it does not have the chance to return to the earth and rejuvenate itself. If too much magic is lost in a ritual, it will not return to the earth, and will instead go to the air and be lost to Neverland.

Once the Wind Father claims the magic the Earth Mother could not keep, he sends it across the world to another place where it might prosper and grow. There it becomes another holy place, but we suffer the loss of its presence here, where we can use it." He sighed. "I wish the ancestors would come to me. I don't know what to do."

"Hard-To-Hit," Slightly said. "Why aren't you at the village? Where's Tiger Lily and everyone else?"

The boy's face darkened briefly. "They…they are gone."

Billy stared at him, astonished. "Gone? What do you mean gone, cully?"

"I mean that they are gone!" Hard-To-Hit snapped back, angrily. His eyes glistened wetly and he rubbed at them furiously. "Their spirits have been thrown from their bodies, and there's something else there! And…and…there were things…"

Behind Hard-To-Hit, Mungojerrie paused. Fish dangling from his mouth, the cat swiveled his head to stare at the boy. Pyewacket also paused, his brow furrowing.

"Things?" Slightly whispered.

Hard-To-Hit nodded, shivering. "Things. They were…ugly. Like those creatures on the birds backs. Slugs." He shook his head. "I've never seen anything like them before. They were perched on the necks of my people, and…and their eyes were blank. They weren't in there anymore. They came after me, told me I would find eternal bliss with the masters." The boy wiped his eyes again. "I had no choice but to run."

"Oh…Hard-To-Hit, I'm sorry." Slightly's face creased unhappily.

"So am I," the Indian boy replied sullenly. "I came to Small Monday Island to see if there were any fairies who could help me. But the fair was deserted."

"So you decided to go looking," Pyewacket said, hopping into the firelight. "And you met me." He looked over at Slightly. "Well, boss, what are we going to do now?"

The blonde groaned, pulling the blanket over his face. "Would you slightly stop asking me? I don't know."

"We need to rest for a while, anyway," Billy said, glaring at Pyewacket. "For now, we're not going anywhere. I think we should take turns keeping watch, just in case more of those…things, come along." He looked at Hard-To-Hit, who was staring into the fire. "Would you mind being first?"

The boy looked up quickly, smiling a little. "I will. It will give me something to do, and I am not injured like you. Besides…I'm not tired. And I need to think."

The pirate nodded. "Wake me up in a few hours, and I'll go from there."

"But you're hurt too," Hard-To-Hit said. "You need rest as much as Slightly does."

"I'll take it," Pyewacket said suddenly. Mungojerrie stared at him, tail twitching. "What? I can do it."

Slightly chuckled from under the blanket. "If you slightly want to…"

The brownie puffed up his chest proudly. "I sure do, boss! I'm a warrior at heart, you know. All that battle crying and yowling and such. Nothing will get past me!" He thumped his chest. Mungojerrie let out a cat's equivalent of a snort. Pyewacket scowled at him. "Oh shut up, you. Nobody asked for your opinion."

Billy stifled a chuckle. "Alright then. When you're done watch, I'll take it up from there. Unless the cat wants to." He eyed Mungojerrie, as though waiting for the cat to offer his assistance. For his part, Mungojerrie only flicked his tail and gave the pirate a one-eyed stare as though to say, "Are you nuts? I need my beauty sleep too, you know!"

Hard-To-Hit nodded. "I will take fours hours on watch, then we'll switch. The rest of you, rest and heal. We will all probably need to be at our best, if today was any indication of what's to come."

Pyewacket snickered. "Sweet dreams, boss."

Slightly groaned.

Bustopher Jones wasn't pleased with all of the thumping, howling, and cursing going on above him. It sounded like a horde of drunken dwarves reveling over some victory or another and participating in odd forms of fornication. It droned in his ears and gave him a headache, and whenever the kuyuri up there shrieked, a piercing pain shot through his temples. He never liked the sound of their voices and would prefer to stay as far from them as possible, if only to save himself a migraine. Unfortunately, it couldn't be helped at the moment and the wyrm felt one of his worse migraines beginning to set in. No, Bustopher was not pleased at all.

What's a dragon supposed to do to get some grack'n sleep around here? He wondered, cracking open a muddy brown eye to peer through clumps and clods of dirt that lay atop him in layers. His muscles shifted as his body awoke from sleep, one step behind his mind, which was now in a good deal of pain. Stupid dwarves, I can smell their stench even this far below my treasury.

…My treasury!

Now, it is a well-known fact that dragons are extremely protective of their treasure hoard, killing and gobbling down the intruders without even a single thought of remorse or conscience. Bustopher Jones was no different. Once the fact that his treasury had unwelcome visitors pushed its way into his sleep befuddled brain Bustopher, Neverland's Wyrm, rose in a fury.

The earth around him broke and crumbled as thick spikes, designed specifically for underground travel, shifted into action. A low snort, followed by a growl and a powerful thrust of his tail sent Bustopher surging upwards, towards the sound of newfound enemies. A roar began bubbling up from deep in his throat, and by the time he broke the surface and lifted his head several hundred feet into the air, the roar had become deafening.

Eyes glowing with an infernal fury known only to dragons, Bustopher gazed down at the swarm of dwarves as they stampeded into the treasury, crushing the protective doors into dust. He snapped his jaws, baring twenty-inch fangs that dripped with venom as his crest flared and rattled dangerously.

"You dare to enter my treasury?" Bustopher demanded, weaving his head from side to side. His spikes trembled violently as the muscles in his snake-like body shifted with every sidestroke of his diamond-shaped head.

The dwarves shrieked and shook their fists at him, brandishing their puny weapons. Bustopher snorted in disdain at the sight, snapping his jaws again. The kuyuri he had heard groaned, stepping heavily into the treasury as it hissed and moaned for blood. It splayed its claws and unhinged its jaw; seconds later, it shrieked in challenge.

Bustopher splayed his scales, crest rattling savagely in offense. "You wish for a fight," he roared, hauling his head back, "then that is what you'll get!"

The kuyuri howled and lurched forward; Bustopher blocked the attack with a swift dive of his thick muzzle. The two locked jaws briefly, snarling and roaring, and amidst the mayhem that ensued the great wyrm didn't notice two trolls vanishing out the shattered doors and into the darkness of the caves.

Imagine…

Fields of green, and the wind blowing.

Imagine…

Rivers running fresh, and creeks bubbling happily.

Imagine…

Squirrels bouncing amidst the trees, and birds singing.

Imagine…

Bodies crumbling to the ground, limbs flung in all directions. The green grass turns red with thick, sticky blood, staining it forever. Screams echo from somewhere between the canyons. And in the Mermaid's Lagoon, bloated sea-dwellers float in death.

Imagine…

Wendy, precious Wendy, falling victim to dark magicks. Listen to her howls of pain as her body is shredded, bit by bit. Deformed goblins and tiny beasts tear at her flesh, devouring her little by little, prolonging her agony.

Imagine…

Dark elves dancing around a bonfire, cheering heartily as the Lost Boys burned. Bubbling, blackened flesh and mouths open in dying shrieks, those little boys dying the death of witches.

Imagine…

There's nothing you can do, Pan. Their lives belong to me.

Torturous eternity…seconds ticked by as though they were lifetimes, an endless sea of twilight and bursts of pain striking Peter's heart. Unknowingly, his tongue ran across dry and cracked lips in a strange and repetitive ritual, as though by some means his lips would moisten and move without dust falling from them if he kept licking. Eyes as lifeless as a corpse's stared unblinking into the melting sky above him, where clouds formed terrible images that caused shudders to run through Peter's small frame.

And all the while, the voice spoke to him. It told of horrendous tortures that awaited him, and those he loved most. Its dry, grainy tone caused goosebumps to spring up on his flesh, needles prickling up and down his body. Had he saliva, he would have been foaming at the mouth.

And yet, despite the pain and horror, he still tried to resist.

Stupid boy, you cannot escape me.

Peter's heart skipped briefly. You'll never have my friends…

You think such? Hah! Foolish, ignorant boy. Your band of whelps are within my reach as we speak. They cannot run. They cannot hide. Nor can you.

YOU think such, Peter's blurry, mist-encased mind snapped back. My boys can defeat anything you throw at them! And so can I!

You're not in any position to counter me, brat. As you lie there gloating, you are within reach of your enemy's claws. One thought from me and he will destroy you.

Peter laughed darkly, weakly. Ahh, but you won't. You want my death to be at your hands, not Codfish's. You don't want to share me with him.

The voice went silent for a moment. Admittedly, that is true. But Pan, ahhh, Pan. For now I can play with you. Captain Hook may have you at his fingertips, but I have your mind and your soul. I can do with you what I wish. Your life continues only by my will.

My life continues at MY will, Peter snarled tiredly. I am my own master!

The voice just laughed. So you think, boy, so you think.

Tinkerbell was in an awful predicament. No amount of swearing or jingling could get her out of this one – she had tried that and all it had done was piss her captor off. At least, she thought it had pissed it off. Or maybe it was perpetually pissed off. Whatever the case, Tink had taken a nasty bite on her thigh and the poison running through her small body caused her to think twice about cussing again.

Not only that, but what her captor had done with Hazelnut had silenced her rather quickly. She could still hear the sharp crack of bones, the soft squelching of ripping flesh and her old friend's shrieks as she was eaten alive.

Her glow had diminished to a rather ugly green, and all she could really do was hang there, strung up like a dead carcass. Trapped in the centre of an intricate web strung across a small ravine, the pixie fought the urge to vomit at the sight of the earth below her littered with the bones of her kin. It was like some disgusting graveyard, and the keeper of said graveyard was preparing to squeeze its bloated body out of a crevice and waddle towards her.

Through film-covered eyes, Tink could see a blurry form pop out of a crack. Eight large, hairy legs rubbed together and poked experimentally at the web, as though testing it for strength. It didn't seem happy about it, but that was quickly rectified. Turning about, a white, gooey substance flew from its backside and quickly, using its many legs, the thing fixed up whatever had not met inspection in its web.

Tink groaned as a breeze wafted the smell of the creature's webbing into her nose. It was rank and the fairy had trouble keeping her stomach from heaving at the scent. Seeming to have heard her, the blurry thing paused and let out a weird little giggle. Then, after rubbing its forelegs together briefly, it scuttled towards her faster than she thought ought to be possible.

It drew near enough for her to see clearly and again, as she had done when she first laid eyes on it, Tink flinched back as violently as she could.

Bulging eyes, nine in all, rolled about in a head shaped like that of an infant's. Pouting lips gleamed with saliva and dripped with poison, as two overly large fangs peeked from behind them. Its body was spider-shaped, with a corpulent rump that bounced when it moved. It rose up on its hindquarters to wave obscenely long, hairy legs in the air.

Tink moaned miserably.

It giggled again. Gleaming red eyes focused on the tiny pixie, and its mouth parted in a sick smile to reveal a hideous pink mouth, full of tiny teeth designed for long hours of chewing.

Had she the strength, Tinkerbell would have cried. As it was, all she could do was allow one tear to flow down her cheek and think to herself: Is this the end for poor Tinkerbell? Oh, Peter!

Abruptly, through ears clogged with excess mucus from the spider-baby's venom, she heard something. A shout? Was something out there? Or was it her imagination?

She heard it again, more clearly. Much closer.

"HEY!"

The creature snapped its jaws and pulled back, its fat body twisting and nearly falling down the web from the speed at which is turned. It squealed in offense, eyes beginning to roll about in its head in anger.

Lifting her head with what strength she had left, Tink peered through the glaze that covered her eyes. Something flew out of the trees far above her, coming down slowly to hover above them. She blinked, trying to focus. Who could that be? She wondered, moaning again as a wave of illness washed over her.

"Tink! Tink, are you alright?"

I know that voice…?

"Tink! Hold on, I'll save you!"

Tinkerbell gasped. "Nibs!" she tried to shout, but could barely make it to a whisper. "Don't…it's too dangerous…"

A fleeting thought of "You silly ass" crossed her mind briefly as the blonde Lost Boy dove towards her, drawing his wooden sword. The spider-baby squealed again, bouncing up and down on its web. It rose up, waving its awful legs about as Nibs drew in for close combat.

As the boy came within striking distance, the spider thing let fly. It snapped open its mouth and fired a blob of goo towards Nibs, aiming for his eyes. Surprised at the sudden attack, the blonde had no time to shield his face and the slime struck him square on. Immediately, the poison within the slime-ball began to burn into Nibs' eyes, like soap. He screamed, dropping his sword and falling towards the earth, rubbing frantically at his eyes.

The spider thing let out a shrieky giggle and spun its rump towards the falling boy, letting loose a stream of webbing to ensnare him. Nibs howled in pain and fear, feeling the webs wrap around his legs and dangle him upside down as he continued trying to wipe his face clear of the poisonous liquid.

Tink swallowed, more tears brimming. No, she thought. No, this can't be happening. It just can't be!

Nibs cried out as the spider-thing began to pull on the webbing, dragging the boy towards it. He swung gently from side to side, never realizing that he was being brought closer to the creature with every second. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the creature's attack and slowly, ever so slowly, beginning to cleanse his eyes.

Soon the blonde was hanging with his face mere inches from the spider baby's. And it was right about then that he could open his eyes without them hurting.

Nibs shrieked at the top of his lungs when he found himself so close to the enemy. The spider baby shrieked back at him, and Tinkerbell, from where she hung, could only remember what happened to her when she screamed and wished Nibs hadn't opened his mouth.

The spider lunged forward and sunk its teeth into Nibs' neck. The boy screamed again, and the spider baby dug deeper. Poison exploded from between its lips, dripping down the blonde's neck and seeping into the bites and his clothes. Nibs continued to scream from new pain and terror, and in response the spider began savaging his neck and shoulder.

Listening to the Lost Boy's screams, Tinkerbell wanted to scream herself. She wouldn't wish harm on any of the boys; as jealous of them as she was at times, she couldn't bring herself to hate them. And as much as she tried to hide it from herself, she did care for them.

Now, with Nibs' screams echoing in her head and filling her with fear not only for herself but for him, Tink opened her mouth and began to scream herself, using what energy she had left to try and distract the creature.

The spider squealed again, yanking away from Nibs. The boy continued to yowl, tears running freely down his face. He could hear Tink screaming and it frightened him more.

Now the spider was in a predicament. Two screaming creatures and it could only bite one of them!

It squealed again, waving its arms frantically as it started towards Tink and then changed its mind and started towards Nibs again. It never reached either of them, so confused as to what it should do and not being able to decide. In a rage, it bounced madly in its place, swinging its head from side to side as it salivated.

Just as it was about to pick one of them to bite again, something whistled in the air. It struck so fast that the spider didn't know what happened until after the fact. And by then, it was pinned to the wall while pus and grisly innards dribbled down its own web to puddle atop the corpses below. Before it belched and died, it saw a spear jutting out from its belly.

It didn't live long enough to find out who threw it.