Chapter 43: A Saving Grace

PETER PAN'S POV

Grown-ups are really so funny. There they stood, mere steps away from the boy and Peter, a distance that should have made him nervous but only made him chuckle internally. So desperately speaking to the boy, the Truest Believer who believed in anything and anyone except them. The Evil Queen, the Savior, the "once" Lost Boy. He even believed in Peter, the biggest liar in the lot!

Peter half listened, ready to jump in and urge how much he alone believed in the boy when needed, which was of course not often.

"Because we love you," the Savior finished. It was almost adorable, all finishing each other's sentences. Peter bit back a scoff of amusement, he had to look innocent and urgent and not entirely in control in front of the boy.

Then he felt a pulse. As if his heart suddenly pushed too much and he felt the blood in his head and throat. Then a stab. As if a white-hot knife had been plunged into his shoulder blade, slicing through muscle and shoving past his bones. His hands were tight fists, his teeth already hurt from the second he'd been clenching them. Furtively, he glanced back to see…nothing. It wasn't a physical wound, or physical pain. The pain was in his mind, it was magic. His magic, the island's magic, something was very wrong with his island.

Well of course, he was bloody dying after all. He snarled to himself, this boy needed to hurry it up and give him his heart. Peter spoke more to him, he couldn't focus on what because his shoulder kept burning, but he didn't need to. Just encouragement, belief. Belief. All the island ever needed.

But why was it so sudden? He measured the hourglass out of the corner of his eye, Peter had time still. Another year, small in the life of the island and even in his, but still far too sudden.

And then it clicked. This wasn't the island, it was in a concentrated area…his campsite. It was burning, but it wasn't burning. At least not naturally, and not truly. He'd felt this before, but the power behind it had been different, had been less. Or maybe he'd just been stronger then.

For the first time since beginning this search, Peter doubted himself. He couldn't very well make her leave, even after he had the heart of the Truest Believer as his. She would still be so powerful, and she was bound to the island. They would be together for eternity in his Neverland. Peter felt his lips twitch, that didn't feel like such a terrible thing. To be completely honest, as he might as well attempt to think in the role he was playing—he was still urging the boy that he himself was special, after all—and admit that the years without her had been…different.

She would hate him. This burning in his back would never leave, and it was excruciating despite the minutes that were passing. She would always be messing up his island with that damn fire. He'd always be dealing with this bloody pain, and he couldn't think straight with it! Here it was, having him think of being together and missing her and seeing white behind his eyelids and completely missing the boy standing in front of him with his pure, red and gold heart in his hand and holding it out to him.

A pressure built up inside his chest, for a moment the white pain disappeared as the heart filled him. He could feel the raw, unused and unknown power racing through his veins, so much energy he could swim around the whole of Neverland—seven times. He took deep breaths, trying to control and balance the flood, lifting himself off of the floor of Skull Rock to help. Ha! He didn't even need pixie dust to fly now. He looked down, breathing heavily with both effort and exhilaration, watching triumphantly as the stupid, helpless grown-ups surrounded the boy's dying body. The hope in their eyes died, lights fading quickly. As if they'd ever had a chance.

And then he was on the ground, and the power was suddenly balanced in him. In fact, it was quiet. He barely felt a chance. He was, for lack of a better term since even his adult life, sober. Helpless. Dull eyes, the light of hope dimming and finally extinguishing. Peter couldn't stop his thoughts, they weren't in his control anymore. He felt things, new things…sadness, remorse, regret, nostalgia…feelings he hadn't felt in a long time, if ever.

He had a new heart, a young, innocent boy's heart. The purest heart in existence, in all of time. And it was reminding Peter of how he had felt, how he had become, when his princess had died.

Peter couldn't feel his body, didn't feel the footsteps reverberate through him as he stepped a bit closer to the pathetic grown-ups. Using his newfound magic, he made the boy's body disappear, but didn't even have the presence of mind to laugh as the grown-ups panicked even more. He didn't feel the new weight of the boy's dying body on his arm now. He didn't feel the pressure and pain as he ripped the heart from his chest, nor the weakness that followed. Peter's hand shot out, pushing his last hope of power and life back into the boy's skinny chest. His breathing heaved for a moment, and his eyelids flickered, before becoming steady and still again.

Peter's arms lifted the boy and shoved him unceremoniously into the Savior's body, she caught him instinctually of course.

"Go," Peter heard his voice growl, and he felt the pain and weakness and anger begin to slither along his legs, across his hips, up his spine and entangling along his chest.

"What? Just like that?" the Savior's eyes were wide, her voice gasping. Peter wasn't in the mood for her slow mind.

"Before I change my mind," he said, hoping his eyes and voice alone would end the pointless conversation.

All three stared at him for another long, arduous moment, before nodding hastily and sprinting out of the cave-like room. Gods, they were loud.

Peter let his shoulders sag and turned back to the hourglass, watching the golden sand trickle far too fast. He was so weak…he…he could barely think…his knees hit the floor, one hand shot out against the stone and the other against the glass. His chest ached now, in addition to the burning knife in his shoulder. His arms shook and he couldn't make his lungs fill with air, and black spots kept growing in his vision. So much for another year or so, he was dying already.

ELLE'S POV

"Elle!"

"Elle, stop!"

"Please, Elle!"

"Hey, listen to me!"

The flames were everywhere, Elle could feel the blistering heat and smoke suffocating her but, of course, her light skin was unscathed. Her hair was so bright in her eyes it rivaled the fire's light; both were mere breaths from her face. Any direction, all directions, anywhere Elle's eyes attempted to focus was light—white, or red, or orange, or all three. But she could hear them calling now, her brothers and the grown-ups. She could hear them through the roar of the flames, and a thin silhouette kept flickering beside her. Something kept shoving at her side, in between her ribs, sharp but not painful—nothing compared to the agony in her chest. It was inside, nothing was touching her body. It was magic.

Everything cleared. The burning inside was gone, dissipating with the fire she'd set. Someone was here, her brothers were here, calling to her. Someone had tried to get through her fire, her impossible fire, to her. Someone strong.

Elle blinked, not registering the campsite or even the other people still present. Emma was kneeling in her front of her, drawn face inches from Elle's, one trembling hand clenching her shoulder. The grown-up shook all over and was panting, but her eyes held Elle completely still and…calm. Not numb, she could still feel the sadness and fury, but her hair only glowed enough to illuminate the two—in addition to the moon.

"W-we," the grown-up choked out, trying to catch her breath quietly. Elle didn't know how to help her, and it didn't occur to her to do so anyway. "We got H-Henry. Pa-an gave him up. It's ok-ay, you can stop th-this now."

Her voice sounded muffled, far away, despite Elle understanding the words perfectly. The anger inside seemed to melt, turning to cool liquid in her stomach and leaking out of her, into the ground, lost in the air. Elle didn't feel it. Sadness remained, and a glimmer of happiness, of hope. The boy, the innocent boy, was alive, and reunited with his family. He hadn't strayed from himself too far.

Then Elle looked around, and gasped, pulse immediately picking up and her throat tightening. But it was shame and sadness. The campsite around her was destroyed. The Lost Boys' tents, weapons, food, skins, the plants and trees, the stone fire pit. It was all smoking ashes. Yet, as soon as she understood this, the plants began to heal. The ashes stirred, and began to slowly, so slowly they all almost missed it, dissolve into tiny green and brown stems. The island was still powerful enough to attempt to heal itself. The tall, enclosing trees were gone, destroyed by her, but they were reappearing, starting fresh.

Emma stood, and Elle absently watched her make her way back to the other grown-ups, holding the unconscious boy in her arms. Elle could have laughed at the Lost Boys and the grown-ups, they mirrored each other's expressions of shock and disbelief—and fear. It occurred to her that she should laugh, could laugh, but no sound even rose in her.

The flash of blonde, quickly covered when the head ducked and he disappeared into the forest, caught Elle's attention, suddenly alert and focused. Everything was suddenly clear—almost too clear—as she could see the rough stitches in his hood and cloak and pants, and make out the outlines of the beads in his messy hair. Felix was leaving, in the direction of somewhere Elle had been…but couldn't quite remember. She had gone once, sometime after running away.

FELIX'S POV

"You gave him up," Felix stated, not bothering to announce his entrance further. He would know, and Felix didn't have the strength to lie and be submissive. Pan was so obviously dying. The island was barely repairing the site of the Lost Boys' camp after Elle's fire, a feat it had been able to do within the blink of an eye years ago. He'd slipped off unnoticed, alarmed and confused and curious—and just a tiny bit proud—when he saw the grown-ups return with the boy, and the Savior manage to calm Elle.

"Yes," Pan's voice was flat with exhaustion, but Felix also knew that it was because he didn't particularly want to talk about it. Hell, Felix himself wasn't entirely sure how much he wanted to discuss his leader's (and brother's) feelings and actions toward his sister. But it needed to be done, their world was dying. The island was shaking slightly, Felix had to concentrate on balance over the tremors. The campsite had barely healed, but hadn't regrown. The forest and ocean and moon looked as dark as ever from the openings in Skull Rock, the darkest Felix had ever seen. He could the magic, Pan's and Neverland's, draining. Not as much as Pan or Elle or the Dark One or even the Savior could feel it, but still.

"Why?" Felix jerked himself to focus on Pan. He didn't know why he had to know, but he did. He would die, fade from existence, alongside his leader any day, he just wanted to understand.

"Why do you think?" Even lying on his back on the dusty floor, pale and too weak to even sit up for Felix, once sharp and glimmering brown eyes now dull and dim, Pan still managed to have attitude enough to be sarcastic. Still, there was a stronger tone of resignation. Felix almost chuckled, and smirked.

"She would have hated you," Felix answered, matter-of-factly. They both knew it. Felix just hadn't believed Pan would actually listen—or care.

"Please, Felix," he sighed, rolling his head away to stare into the hourglass. The bottom was almost entirely filled with the golden sand, and even it was becoming duller by the grain. He sounded like he wanted to say more as he drew a shaky breath, so Felix just stared into the sands and waited. "I'm dying—"

"There has to be another way," Felix bit suddenly. He hated this. Pan was his leader, his brother, his best friend, and he was far too strong, far too clever, far too ruthless to lose like this. To just…just give up like this. All Felix had truly believed in for countless years, "Peter Pan never fails."

"There is," the powerful boy whispered, so quietly and so passively that Felix nearly missed it. "But I'm not going to do it." Felix didn't know what to say. He was too angry at Pan, for just letting himself and their home and the boys die. "Maybe my princess is right, maybe it's time that I die."

The anger fell away, shoved off as if dirt under a bucket of water. Felix couldn't help it, even in the face of his and his brothers' and his home's fall, a tiny small tugged at his lips. He was…proud. He suddenly understood why. Why Pan gave the boy back, why he was letting himself die. He hadn't given up, not at all. He'd chosen. Still…

"How?" the curiosity was too great to ignore. For years, since even before Elle had left and they'd all believed her dead, Pan had been searching for the particular boy, the Truest Believer, as the only way to win. Now, there was another way?

"Her heart works too."

Felix heard the words, quiet and shaky as they were, but they seemed far away and muffled. The shock resonated, settling in his stomach and dragging him back a few steps away from Pan. Then the feeling morphed, parts of it changing in his stomach from chock to anger and fear. All this time they'd been searching and fighting, and she had been here all along. Not only alive, but a solution, a salvation for them all. But he couldn't take her heart and kill her, Pan couldn't and Felix couldn't and he doubted the boys could either.

"I promise you, Felix, I will not take it," his voice was still broken, but there was a new strength to it. Conviction. Felix turned on his heel and sprinted out of the cave, off of Skull Rock, leaving his leader and brother behind.