Author's Note: Yaye, an update! Well, this is still old stuff; bear with me for the next couple of chapters, the plot will pick up... eventually. XD

Part Four: Night Mares and Dream Snakes

2/4

Wendy wasn't the type of girl to be influenced forever by first impressions. She liked to give second chances, because she believed in the kindness of people and thought they deserved it, if it was asked. However, her first impression of Saxon and the room his beastly little servants had locked her in was a foul one – one that she refused to change her mind about. And as tears coursed down her cheeks and sobs echoed within her little dungeon, all she could do was hate him more than she hated anything else in the world.

With every taunt and jeer she received from the guards on the other side of the bars – nasty jibes on her gender and how loud she was being, mostly – she hated the position she was in with even more fervor. Dusty hay was her bed and blanket, spider webs her curtains, and a sick smell of rot and decay filtering through her nose did little to comfort her. And across the way she could see another cell filled to the brim with dying goblins, gnomes, and other faerie ilk – stuffed into the cage like pickles in a jar they were, none of them able to move aside from the occasional twitch of a limb or blinking, agonized eyes.

The sight made her shudder, and she was glad they hadn't put her in there.

Cries for help and misery-filled moans echoed throughout the dungeon, while those who had just been recently captured or whose spirits and will hadn't been annihilated yet cursed and spat the name of Saxon in foul tongues. Wendy didn't know how many times the captives incited the guards to attend them – or how many shrieks of pain made her wince and cry even harder when the guards did get at them – but she didn't like it one little bit.

In the cell on her left, an emaciated unicorn stood with its head bowed, flanks shuddering violently every few seconds. It rolled a red-rimmed eye at her, and she refused to look at the ribs that jutted out from its sides and the veins that pulsed beneath dusty, dying flesh. A few times it had tried to speak to her, but all it could manage was disjointed, nonsensical images being dumped randomly into Wendy's mind, which caused the girl to wail and scuttle to the other side of her cell.

So she sat, and she cried, curled up in the shadows with her face in her hands. There was a window above her, rusty bars preventing any entrance or escape, but she didn't dare to look out of it – there were some terrible noises coming from the other side, and she had seen unnaturally long, clawed fingers tapping at the bars when she was first tossed inside.

When her tears finally ebbed just a little, and the taunts of the guards were focused on someone – or something – else, Wendy sat back and closed her eyes, her mind wandering to the one thing she feared for most: her boys. John, Michael, Nibs, Curly, the Twins, Tootles, Slightly…and Peter.

Oh, Peter, she thought as a fresh batch of tears formed in her eyes. Where are you? Where are my boys? What has that beast done to all of you?

Images of the boys flashed in her mind, scenes playing against her closed eyelids as she thought of each and every one of them. Nibs and Slightly arguing, Tootles gobbling down her special Neverberry cakes, Curly laughing like a loon after one of his pranks, the Twins bent together over one of their new inventions, John and Michael playing tag and laughing merrily, Peter releasing a triumphant crow as he flew away from the Jolly Roger, leaving behind a rather peeved Captain Hook…

Where were they now? Some were in this very castle, she knew, but it was only their bodies. Whatever had taken control of them were nothing more than wretched beasts! But the others…Nibs, Peter, Tootles, and Slightly. What had become of them? That…that monster had told her he was hurting Peter. How? Peter wasn't here, in this terrible castle, was he?

Oh, I hope not, Wendy fretted inwardly, clutching her skirt.

A low, crackling whinny sounded softly to her from the cage on her left, and Wendy looked. As quickly as she did, she looked away – the unicorn's state hurt her, made her ill. It whinnied again, even more softly.

Pan…

Wendy gasped, her hands flying up to her cheeks as an image of Peter flashed before her eyes. He was lying in a bed, a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his head to cover his eyes as Smee leaned over him, tucking blankets gently around him.

Is that where Peter is? The girl wondered, her eyes growing wide. On the Jolly Roger?

A horrific scream yanked her from her thoughts, and she turned to see the unicorn being whipped viciously by the guards. She gasped as the beast lurched against the shackles that held it, rearing back as its eyes rolled wildly and foam sprayed from its lips.

"Oh, leave it alone!" Wendy cried as blood exploded from the gashes the whips made on the unicorn's skin. It shrieked again, pinning back its ears and throwing its body against the bars between their cells. "Oh, please!"

All down the hall voices were rising, cheering the unicorn on as it screamed, bending the bars a little further every time its body impacted with them. Somewhere, on a different level of hearing than she was used to, Wendy could hear the animal screaming in a voice and language she could understand.

Help me!

"Stop it!" Wendy shrieked at the guards.

Please, help me! It hurts!

"Oh!" Wendy clutched at her cheeks, tears streaming down her face once more.

HELP ME! IT HURTS! IT HURTS! HELP ME! HELP MEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The voice in her head suddenly went from understandable to mindless screaming. Wendy screamed too, clamping her hands over her ears. Too busy was she trying to silence the cries that she didn't see the unicorn's body spasm, blood bursting from between its jaws to spray across the cage. Its horn flashed white, then red, then to an ugly shade of black as an uncontrollable shiver rushed through its body. It threw its head back and let out a keening wail as its legs buckled and it dropped with a dull thud to the floor.

Wendy was still screaming even after the unicorn had stopped. Her heart was thundering wildly in her breast, even after the once-beautiful creature's heart slowed to a crawl, and then froze. Her eyes remained closed even as the guards chopped the unicorn's body to pieces, shoving them through the bars of the cell across the way. Mouths strained towards the remains, hands twitched as each of the prisoners moaned and gnashed their teeth, hoping for their first meal in weeks.

By the time Wendy's screams ceased and her eyes opened, all that was left of the unicorn was a large streak of blood on the floor. And in the cell, the faerie folk licked their lips and wailed to themselves, both mourning and celebrating over the creature's death.

Thankfully, Wendy never did figure out what really happened to the unicorn. Ignorance truly is bliss, sometimes…even with the evidence in front of her, she spent the rest of her days thinking the poor thing had been given a proper burial.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Wendy, a pair of dark eyes watched her coolly from behind the bars of the window above. Abura stood on the windowsill, arms crossed over his chest as he stared at the girl, his face an expressionless mask. His mind, on the other hand, was spinning wildly, weaving the girl's presence in the castle into the mad tapestry of plans that wrapped about his mind.

(…and the bait is laid; the king shall come…)

Abura's eyes narrowed into slits. Turning away from the window, he cast a small spell upon it, guarding it from the dark things that crawled within the abyss he floated within. Fluttering his wings and leaving a trail of grayish-black magic sparkling behind him, Abura soared up to the topmost window, and out. He glanced around only briefly, before making his way through the long, shadowy halls of Saxon's palace to his own little corner of hell.

Once again he went to his cauldron, looking into the black waters within it. His eyes narrowed again, but a smirk tugged at his lips. "Ai, it eez time," he whispered. He put a toe to the water, then his whole foot. He began to walk in circles on top of the murky waters, watching as each step created a ripple that swept out to mingle with the others.

(…and the storm rises; darkflame sings…)

Black mist whispered up, surrounding him as he continued to walk almost leisurely in circles. His wings sparkled dimly and his eyes began to glow with a near-feral light as his mind slid over the Text in his mind. "It eez time," Abura whispered again, watching the waters closely as dark lightning-like sparks of electric magic flickered within them.

The scent of fire and salt air filtered into his nose as his pace increased, the water within the cauldron torn into a near-frenzy. It bubbled and foamed like a rabid animal, until a loud – POP! – sounded and Abura leapt back, fluttering his wings to stay aloft above the roiling mist. He hovered there for a few minutes, watching as the waters continued to swirl and the spell was slowly coming into completion.

It ended swiftly enough, and when it had, the dark fairy nodded, mostly to himself. "Da, eez good." Then, in a swift flash of fangs, "So leetle time, so much to do! Ai!"

A raucous burst of crazed laughter bounced throughout the room as Abura zipped away from the cauldron and out the door, the plans he had in his mind slowly tightening the noose around a certain someone's throat.

Bustopher wasn't stupid. He knew the second his jaws clamped down on one of the dwarves that something was seriously, disgusting wrong with it. Especially when his tongue slid across the slimy, pulsing body of a slug. To say the least, Bustopher had no intention of eating any of the dwarves that had come into his treasury – in fact, he didn't even want to bite them in half. So instead of using his teeth on them, he squished them with his sinuous, snake-like body.

Of course, he had to deal with the kuyuri first, but that was swiftly dealt with. In all his draconian years he had never left a corpse in his treasury – now he had a few hundred strewn across his jewel piles, staining gold red with thick blood. He wanted to get rid of them, but the slugs he saw on their necks caused a shudder to run through him – his heart told him they were dangerous, even to him.

So instead of touching them, he dug trenches around their bodies, allowing the dwarves to roll unceremoniously into the holes. As soon as they were all tucked nicely into their graves, Bustopher began the slow process of rolling the kuyuri out the door. As far as he could see, it had no slug on it so he wasn't too worried about that. However, the beast was pretty large and though Bustopher was no runt, he still had some difficulty in removing the blasted thing from his precious treasury.

By the time he was done, his home looked much like it had before – aside from the bloodstains and rumpled piles of gold and jewels that lay strewn about. That irritated the dragon – all those years of setting his home up to perfection, lost in one night by a bunch of stupid dwarves and a kuyuri. Bastards. Had they no sense of respect when in someone else's home?

Apparently not, he thought irritably, sweeping his tail across the floor to drag the scattered piles back into some semblance of order. Of course, they're just dwarves. Crude things that they are, I can't really expect them to know how to behave themselves.

But then, he mused as he curled his tail around himself and raised his head to survey the room. They didn't seem like they were in their right minds at all. His eyes narrowed a bit, and he bowed his head to sniff at the bloodstains on the floor. Not themselves at all…

A sudden thought crossed his mind: I wonder what day it is?

He wasn't entirely sure why he suddenly thought of that. After all, dragons didn't really care for the date, or the time – they lived in the moment, and Bustopher was no exception to that rule. On the other hand, he was the only living dragon left in Neverland – ignoring the dragon rock with the sword in it, of course – and he had a very specific reason to be guarding his treasury. The problem was, he realized sourly, he had forgotten that reason.

Sniffing disdainfully, Bustopher scowled at the room. Sometimes he really hated being a dragon, simply for the fact that when a dragon sleeps, they sleep for about a hundred years. To them, a hundred years is little more than a normal human night of snoozing. Still, he realized with a snort, even if it was a mere night's sleep for him, all those years had taken their toll on his brain.

He couldn't remember why he was so possessively protective of his treasury, but he did remember where he could find out. A wicked smile played across Bustopher's face, flashing thousands of fangs in his great maw. Quickly, he turned and slithered towards the northern wall, pressing his nose into a rather large bit of velvet drapery he vaguely remember posting up a long time ago. Using his muzzle to shove it aside, he felt along the wall behind it with his nose, sometimes flicking out his tongue to see if what he was looking for was still there.

At first he was starting to get a little angry, as he couldn't find it. But with a triumphant "AHA!" he thrust his head into the old tunnel he had made so many years ago, using the spikes on his long body to propel him forward. The drapery slid back into place as his tail slipped through the hole, effectively hiding what he had found as Bustopher streaked through the earth, huffing a bit as he moved towards the end.

He turned a rather sharp corner and grinned to himself as he saw the gaping hole that signaled the end of the tunnel. A dim light burned within, and he poked his head out into open space, checking for any intruders before his body fully exited the tunnel. He raised his head high, dark eyes peering around the room in what appeared to be suspicion, but was really just remembrance.

In the centre of the room, a tall black candle sat, burning. Bustopher growled as his mind searched for the reason why the candle was burning when obviously no one had been in there for at least a hundred years. The weird thing about it was that the wax was fresh, as though it had just been lit. Bustopher circled it, narrowing his eyes as he stuck his face in close. He sniffed, but not once did the flame flicker – rather, it almost seemed to grow.

Drawing back, the dragon peered at it curiously, his eyes following the trails of wax as they slid down to the floor. He frowned a little, noticing some odd markings on the floor, and his eyes moved to follow them out and away from the candle. He looked around, one brow ridge quirking up as he noticed seven lines of writing, perfectly spaced apart, beginning at the candle and moving away towards the walls. His brow ridge raised further as he looked closer, and noticed seven stone sarcophagi carved into each of the seven walls.

And on each of the seven walls…

Bustopher's eyes widened, and then narrowed. So, that's why…

Billy's sleep was interrupted in a most annoying way by hands that took hold of his shoulders and shook him, hard. A worried voice spoke rapidly into his ears and the youth cracked open one bleary eye to peer into the anxious face of Slightly, whose mouth moved with words the gunner couldn't quite figure yet.

"Billy – have to go – hurry, wake up!"

The gunner groaned, feeling the gashes on his back protest as he slowly shoved his body into a sitting position. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, frowning. "Slightly…? What's going on?" he mumbled as the blonde boy took hold of his upper arm and tugged hurriedly, dragging Billy to his feet.

"Billy, we slightly have to leave now," Slightly said, and it was right about then that Billy heard Pyewacket's voice cry incredulously,

"An army of what is gathering where?!"

Shaking his head as Slightly pulled him gently towards the mouth of the cave, Billy resisted the urge to question the presence of a rather large gray wolf, who he identified dimly as Wendy's friend, Neko. Hard-To-Hit glanced over at him, then nodded to Slightly as the boy continued gripping Billy's arm as though he were afraid to let go.

"An army of animals and dark elves are gathering a mile north of here," the Indian boy repeated, mostly for Billy's benefit. "The animals are slugged, and the elves…" He shuddered, and looked at the wolf. "Neko says they are dressed and prepared for battle. They are also slugged."

Billy's eyes widened and Slightly trembled a bit. Neko wuffed, looking between the three boys with what seemed to be concern in his golden eyes. Hard-To-Hit nodded and translated.

"He knows of many hidden paths through the woods where most beasts do not tread. He will lead us back to the mainland, and safety, and will guard us while we sleep if it becomes necessary." The wolf wuffed again, and Hard-To-Hit chewed his lip. "We must leave now, he says. From what he saw, it seems the army is preparing to set out within the next few hours."

"Shot and shale," Billy whispered, rubbing his forehead. "This isn't good."

"I would say not," Hard-To-Hit said grimly as he turned and fetched his bow and arrows. When he returned, his face was that of a warrior's mask. "But we have no choice. There are too few of us here, and there are thousands of them. At the least, we must find help." He looked at Slightly. "We should probably find Peter and the other Lost Boys, they may be able to even the odds, if only by a little."

At the mention of his friends, the blonde winced inwardly. Somehow, he felt that they wouldn't be able to help him this time. But, refusing to voice his doubts and bring whatever hope they all had down, he nodded. "Yes, let's go. Peter may know what to do."

Billy raised an eyebrow. Peter may know what to do? He thought. Doesn't Peter always know what to do? You doubt him, Slightly?

"Even if Pan does know what we have to do, it doesn't change the fact that we don't have the manpower we need to get it done," Billy muttered, mostly to himself. Hard-To-Hit scowled.

"Well, what do you propose then? Sit here and wait for that army to come down on us and kill us? Or even worse, become one of their slaves?"

"No!" Billy snarled. "What I am saying, is that we should be realistic about this. Even if we do find Pan and the Lost Boys, who's to say they won't already be slugged? Or what if they're not there when we arrive? I'm not saying we should sit here and die, I'm saying we need a better plan than running around Neverland like chickens with our heads cut off!" He winced a little at the pale shade that came over Slightly's face at the thought of his family being under the slug's control. "Slightly, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"No…" Slightly bit his lip, looking worriedly between both boys. "But you have a slight point. We do need more help." He glanced pleadingly at Hard-To-Hit. "Even if we can get to the mainland, how can we do it as we are? Billy and I are still hurt. We can manage," he said quickly as the gunner started to protest, "but we're not at our best. We…I slightly don't think we can do this alone, Hard-To-Hit."

The Indian boy frowned, and sighed. "I know…" Neko barked lightly, drawing the boys' attention to him. Hard-To-Hit frowned some more, and then smiled a little. "Neko says he will help us to find more help, and to find Peter and the others. There's not a lot he can do, but he will try."

Billy sighed, curling his hand around Slightly's as a wave of fear washed over him. "It's good to know we have one more ally," he said softly. Slightly smiled nervously at him.

"Yeah…" He squeezed Billy's hand back, trying to reassure his friend – and himself – that things would turn out alright after all.

Not that it was working, mind you. Both boys continued to feel as though a noose were tightening around their throats and at any second the ground beneath them would drop, sending them to their deaths. However, though the fear never left, they pushed it to the side – there wasn't time for it, as Hard-To-Hit translated for the wolf, and the army was too close for comfort.

Within minutes, the three were ready to leave. Neko kept one eye on them at all times, while his other senses scanned the surrounding area for any sign of the enemy. Quietly, with Pyewacket perched on Mungojerrie's back and the cat trailing Neko, the group set off into the shadows of the forest. Hard-To-Hit took up the rear as Pyewacket, Mungojerrie, Billy and Slightly filled the middle, all of them tense and nervous, frightened of the darkness that danced around them.

While Billy's mind was filled with visions of cannibalistic mermaids and the deepest pits of hell, Hard-To-Hit thought of his father and home. Pyewacket tried to think of better days he had seen, but failed miserably and sat slumped on Mungojerrie's back. For his part, the cat thought of his duty and swore to himself that he would allow nothing to happen to the group, even if it meant his own life would be lost.

Slightly, meanwhile, was pondering the significance of the nightmares he had had. It had been a long, long time since he had dreamed of his mother – so long, in fact, that he had truly almost forgotten what she even looked like. But now, padding through the darkness with only the wind, the breathing of his companions and the pounding of his own heart sounding in his ears, he remembered.

And maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, for he kept seeing her – between the trees, clothed in white, waist-length hair flowing behind her and threaded with ribbons. Her eyes never left him, and she seemed to smile reassuringly as she paced the group, vanishing into the shadows one moment to reappear the next.

Slightly never said a word of it to the others. After all…it was only his imagination. She would leave when the sun rose, he thought. All spooks and haunts did when there was light.

But, he wondered as he looked to the side again, was she really a bad omen? Perhaps she was just a remnant of his nightmare; or was she something else? A thought or a dream, or simply a memory that refused to leave him even when he was awake? Whatever the case, he didn't want her to leave. Deep inside, he wished she really were there with him.

And though he would have liked to share it with Billy, his best friend, there were some things he wanted to keep for his very own. Selfish, maybe, but he didn't care. She was his little secret.

It was only a few hours left until the break of dawn, but the sky had no intentions of clearing. The night seemed to enjoy the grip it had on the land, and was quite reluctant to release it. And all through the forest, the trees whispered amongst themselves of the news they were receiving from the north – evil was afoot. And it was readying to move.

Some of the oldest trees spoke of dark times that they had seen before, and how the Seven Sisters had come together to forge a Ward to guard Neverland. A Ward so powerful, it had become a life of its own. The Prophecies said, the elder trees whispered, that it would return to them in the darkest time, and bring light upon the land once more. The younger trees laughed at such folly, declaring it nothing but a legend, but the older ones knew.

The Seven Sisters were stirring, their magic awakening from a hundred years of slumber. One had already been seen walking amongst them, the ghostly essence of the One who had been Sacrificed. The old trees knew, they had been there. They had seen what had become of the Sister who gave herself up to the flame, and now that she walked amongst them again, her form little more than a glowing shadow, they knew the time had come.

The Prophecies were coming true.

The Ward was awakening.

Soon, the trees knew, a battle would rage amongst them. So many lives to be lost, all to defend the life of one. A pity, maybe. Was one life worth so many more? Depending on the life in question…yes, or no.

But…

As it was written, so it shall be done.

The trees knew it as well as they who had foreseen it.

At that moment, all of Neverland grew silent. Not a bird chirped, not a mouth moved, nor an eye blinked. Complete and utter silence reigned, and the trees waited with baited breath for what they knew would come.

And somewhere out there, hidden deep beneath the earth in a cave nearly forgotten, a sword forged in the fires of sacrifice began to sing.