25. Gems
Pearly Soames had always been fond of gems. He'd been obsessed with them for as long as Peter Lake could remember.
And Peter had never bothered to ask him the reason behind this quirk. Whether there was one in the first place. It had mattered less and less to him, over the years. The longer he stayed, the filthier he felt. The thicker the craving to run became…
In his candlelit office, Pearly kept a silver tray and a stack of crystals, colorful, glistering. Caves of glass, drowned in light. In his younger days, Peter Lake had even felt a rush of bittersweet euphoria at the sight of Pearly's grin, the glow of his scarred face, the roots on his throat, whenever he showed up with a new trophy for the tray.
"Very good, my magpie… Very, very good…"
He'd felt special. Like he was delivering bricks to build something massive. His findings mattered to Pearly. He mattered to Pearly.
My magpie…
Now, knowing what they knew…
That the light of the world was but a web of threads, connecting the dead to the stars… Tunnels, like roads, the lamp posts and the traffic lights.
That Beverly's harness was formed by two green earrings, puny as peas, now trembling gently from her ears, against the pale of her cheek.
Not flashy or preposterously saturated. Not the likes of Pearly's treasures. Beverly had been wealthier than all of them most of her life, but she had no such gems in her corner of paradise. Her gardens. This tent, afloat.
Had Pearly always been trying to seek a kinder death? A route to the sky? To catch a light he hadn't earned?
Magpie… Thief…
It was the early afternoon and Peter Lake clung to the pianist for dear life.
I'm yours… I'm no magpie, I'm no thief… I'm yours and that is all that is certain…
He shook off the dust of his dreams, the hair that wasn't hers, that hand that was too little, that invisible face, turned away from his own. Dreams remained dreams, no matter where he went. Considering his current position, he very much doubted he'd ever get a chance to see that face at all.
And truth be told, it mattered very little to him.
Thank you for everything…
Her fingers were waves, breaking through his hair. Her skin, the sea, cool and gentle, moving as she breathed. This sky was alive.
A rosy morning glow, the fading stars he had walked toward, when he first climbed to her roof.
Life in death, color in clouds.
Thank you…
The sun was dim, the walls of cloth thick and foggy around them.
Beverly's pink face, next to his. Color had returned to her in leaps. The daylight sliced through the fabric of the tent and illuminated her skin in shards of creamy yellows and dusty violets.
I feared I would never see you again…
Waking up was a startle. A shiver coursed through his bones. A sinking in his gut, a bite of dread, that her body would be ablaze, her eyes open and crystallized, as beautifully lifeless as the gems on her ears. That the fire would rise and claim her breath once more.
You're here… You're real…
But they were dead, and her fever was extinguished. She was cold to the touch, so much so that she trembled. Most importantly, she was breathing.
You saved me… I will dedicate every day to making you glad of what you've done…
Peter Lake brushed the tip of his nose down the side of her face. He relished in this peace, this numbing clarity that flooded him. A hum of quiet happiness, thicker than the clattering of a fence. Louder than accented voices and blowing winds.
It was all orders…
"Heh… Your nose is cold…"
Beverly.
Her face, turning to his, his lips pressing to the soft flesh of her cheek.
"You're cold, too..."
"Sleep some more. You need to rest…"
"I'm already at rest…"
"You haven't slept for days…"
"Neither have you…"
Her voice, her thoughts…
"You're shivering, Beverly…"
"It'll take some getting used to… Most of my life, harnessing this little fire, now gone…"
He held her closer.
"Don't worry… I'm just right…"
"Mm…"
"I'm alright, Peter… Nothing can happen to me anymore."
She was real. Not just real, but present. She didn't hide from him with her back turned, expecting an answer to a muffled riddle. She was no question. She harbored no doubt.
Very good, my magpie.
She spoke to him. He spoke to her. There would never be enough words.
He told her about Pearly and his fixation with gems, his silver tray of crystal.
She clung to his wrists as he cupped her face. He delineated the curve of her ears and the jewels that hung from them.
"Was he always trying to reach the sky…?" His voice was soft. "A kinder eternity to poison with his presence?"
"They call him The Pearl, up here, apparently…"
"The Pearl?"
"Cecil told me… They, heh, they don't like him."
"Well, what do you figure." They both chuckled, a soft, near-inaudible sound. Then: "Well, calling him 'The Pearl' is only doing him a favor… 'Pearly' doesn't sound as intimidating as 'The Pearl.'"
"Neither name sounds particularly menacing… Pearly… The Pearl…"
He laughed softly. The lamp flickered before the light fused back out.
My miracle…
What made stars shine? What turned on this light, what drowned it out? Was there something missing?
Questions to questions…
What made gems glimmer? What opened up these tunnels?
Where was…?
"I want to find Cecil…"
Beverly nodded. "Me, too."
Peter hesitated. Then: "Cecil was never one to vanish… Something's happened… If he's lost his coins before, he's probably lost them again… And I owe it to him… He's my friend…"
"We'll fly… We'll find him…"
Fly on down, Peter Pan…
"You said that he traveled through coins… A glint of gold."
"Yes."
"And he only has coins because I gave them back to him… That's sort of reckless, to be honest."
"It is, a bit."
"I wonder if it matters… What we are each given, as a harness. Your earrings, Cecil's coins…"
"Of course it matters. Most things do."
And she was right.
"Let's get dressed…"
"Yes…"
"Though, truth be told, I don't mind you this way…"
Her fingers, trailing up and down the path formed by the bones of his spine.
He smiled a bit. "You'd have me fly about New York with no clothes on? A ghost, naked, unseen to all but you? You're getting demanding, Miss Penn..."
Beverly's full lips curled into a smile.
"I'd have you in every fashion," she murmured, "or none at all. Naked, clothed. Invisible, visible. I'd marvel at you any way."
Her fingers traced the dips formed by the muscles on his back and she observed her own caresses. A musician. An artist. She saw him completely.
I love it when you touch me.
And it struck him then. That she'd touched the universe and taken the City of Justice in these hands that she now lay so delicately upon him. How could she touch him with such reverence? How could he compare to cities and countries? Peter Lake sighed softly and Beverly looked at him gently.
"Though I'd love to fulfill your wishes, I don't want Cecil to see me like this…"
Beverly giggled. "Yes, I thought as much."
"Only you may see me like this... I want no one else to do so..."
I want nothing but this…
"What luck I have," she murmured.
A final brush of her lips along the slope of his nose. A caress of her fingers through his hair.
I love you…
"What luck," she repeated, so very quietly.
And then Beverly slipped away from him, out of the bed. She sat down and reached for the garments scattered along the bedsheets.
With her underneath him, he'd let himself forget that they were no longer alive.
Silence. Darker. Heavier. Peter watched her white back, the hair cascading in airy red curls across her skin.
And he thought of the faceless girl with her palm facing the moon, her saturated colors… He thought of John…
Death was peace, but it was also frustration. He was too sheepish to confess this to her now. Surely, Beverly was familiarized with the feeling much more than he would ever be.
He felt like he'd been deprived of too many opportunities, most of which he hadn't previously acknowledged up to this point. He had once been ready to never speak to Humpstone John again, to never speak to Cecil again, but now… Now…
An eternity was condemned to him. The weight of the waiting now finally heaved upon his heartless chest. He would never know the name of his own dreams.
Were his parents up here? Would he know them? Would they know him?
Were they sunk? Floating? Flying…?
You're not a thief…
He reached out and touched the pianist's arm. Beverly faced him.
"What's wrong?" she whispered.
"Nothing, just… You've- You've told me a lot, already… And I know I ask too many questions…"
"Ask me more. As many as you wish to ask. I love talking to you."
"You don't have to answer me…"
"I know."
"But…" he whispered. He looked at her eyes. "Did it hurt, Beverly?"
His voice hitched at the verb.
Hurt.
Her features softened.
"To die?" she clarified.
He nodded, said no more.
She was no question. She would offer no replying riddle, no mystery. She faced him as she spoke. She was unclothed. She was truth and clarity and he listened to her.
"It didn't hurt to die, no. Not in my case, at the very least. I suppose some deaths do hurt, but not mine. I fell asleep. I woke up dead."
She licked her lips. She bent down, retrieved her chemise. He released her arm so she could throw the garment over her head.
"Truth be told," she murmured, through the fabric, as she slipped it on, "I was a bit disappointed by the lack of pain. All this time, thinking of burning alive… And screaming, and melting walls…"
Thick red hair slithering over the white. He kept quiet, watched her, let her continue.
"I guess," she whispered, then, a small smile teasing the curve of her lips, "I got to be slain by a criminal, after all… And I was still disappointed. A dull end to a dull life."
My life…
What had Pearly craved to catch, with those gems, on that silver tray, next to the window? A rainbowed staircase of light? A hologrammed climb?
What was Pearly's heaven?
"Peter."
"What, love?"
The floor was a meadow of hue and fabric. He hadn't noticed the clothes scattered there until now.
Beverly was on her knees, surrounded by all these hues, and she was in her undergarments, looking at him with those large, liquid eyes.
She said: "Thank you for asking… Truly, thank you."
There was life within him, yet. Something moved. Not only his lungs, and his blinking eyes, and his lips as he replied. Peter Lake was in motion.
"Thank you for answering."
Was this what separated machine from man? An oilless construction would stay collapsed. Metal didn't rot, contrary to flesh. It would stay beautiful in all its stages of death.
Yet the stench of decay would haunt entire cities. Skin and bone and dust. A human soul floated, discarded, in the open air, long after the blood dried and the heartbeat halted.
What did his own spirit smell like? Was he the breeze of the sea? Was he salt? Was he blood?
Petes… Pete…
"Did it hurt for you?"
He thought about it for a moment.
Peter.
"I fell," he murmured, then. "And that was that. The fall was worse than the impact itself… The weight of all this darkness. The blizzard, Pearly's words, and Gabriel's words… My own words…"
"You had a right to be angry… Any of them would have done much worse than screaming, in your shoes. As would I."
A hint of surprise. "You?"
Beverly was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded.
"Me."
I can imagine.
"Had they been the one to kill you first, had I been in your shoes on that bridge… Mm."
I can imagine…
"I would have dragged one or two of them with me, at the very least," she decided, at last, in a soft voice. "Into the water… I would not have restrained the white horse…" She grimaced a bit, as if she'd been stung. She could still see him, broken, falling, bloodied… "One piece of my pain. One drop of my fever. With that, alone, I could have made things fair between us. I could have made them pay."
Peter Lake looked at her now from the bed. The pianist, on the floor, half-clothed. Her gentle features, her liquid eyes locked on the walls of the tent… And he believed her, without question.
"What a sight you would have been," Peter whispered.
She faced him. He slowly sat up on the bed, allowed the bedsheets to roll away from him.
"Thank you."
She asked: "What for?"
"Everything. Everything…"
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
At last, we are off to find Cecil. We shall see that next chapter :3 And I will try to quicken the pace a bit cause I got comfy writing about Peter and Beverly being cute again. I missed them. And they make me happy...
I have no energy today to write an overly-long Author's Note, I'm sorry. My mom decided to start an argument with me out of nowhere, last night, and that left me pretty shaken up, so... yeah, I got enough energy to finish this chapter and to thank you for being here every time I update my story. It means the world to me.
I'll only say that Pearly's tray of gems is an item that shows up in the movie that I think connects WAY too well with my theory that souls connect and travel through light - he literally seeks to learn Peter's location by manipulating the moonlight into showing him the truth. He is stealing a kinder death. Voila. I'm proud of how I incorporated this element of the film into my story :)
Thank you, once again. Thanks for being here. I'm too sad and too tired right now to overelaborate on this Note, but I'll feel better soon, most likely. So. Don't worry for me. Here's your hug. *hug* See you next time!