37. A star in the lake (part 4)
When they broke away again, the pianist stepped out of Peter Lake's arms and went to Cecil, whose dark eyes were submerged in a refreshing endearment.
She hugged him too, around the neck, pulling him close.
The motion seemed to shock him. His long hands pat her back.
"Well," he murmured, nodding, at last, "thank you…"
"Thank you," she murmured.
Peter Lake smiled beside them.
He thought of the day his life had changed forever, Christmas 1916.
That night, he'd also bid farewell to Cecil, with an embrace near identical to this.
Goodnight, Saint Peter.
Only now, rather than sunken, the sun was rising, bleeding into the river.
Peter turned his face to the water.
He felt the light that had kissed his face darken into cool, ashy violets. His lips quivered in an attempt to stay poised.
Let it seep in. Feel me as I feel you.
He felt the familiar urge to cry, but he'd wept too much in his final gasps of life and first breaths of death. So thinking of weeping again only managed to exhaust him.
Don't lose your warmth, Peter.
The familiarity he had with these waves. The pull, the drag. The trust that required…
No, Peter Lake wasn't afraid. But the taste of Beverly's mouth lingered upon his own. In a little while, a dusty speck of time, one tiny fragment of eternity, it would cease to be there. And he'd have to wait again and trust that it'd all turn out alright.
But now, today, I still remember life.
Peter realized that his pain would cease to be there soon enough too. He would learn to speak this new language of glints and breezes. To find a hidden embrace within a gale of wind, or a smile within a flash of moonlight.
He wouldn't weigh Beverly down with any more worries or tears. He'd made her a promise.
But for a brief moment, before it all could happen, before she could fly and begin playing her piano and make new melodies, new sounds… Peter looked at the water. At the dripping sunshine.
His bed and plate. His crib. His grave.
He allowed himself to mourn the life he'd lost.
He'd mourned Beverly for three days but he'd not once found a space in time, after his passing, to fully accept that he'd been killed. That he would never be alive again.
Machines, safes, kept their heartbeats after they're frozen in time. A little bit of oil and tweaked cogs are enough to breathe new life into them…
But not him. Not the body at the bottom of this river.
He allowed himself to mourn Peter Lake, the orphan boy, the thief, the lover of Beverly Penn.
Known to few, mourned by fewer… and loved by plenty.
Murdered by men he once called friends. A magpie pecked to death by his own kind.
The man he'd been. And what remained of him.
Enough to not make the pain a lingering thought, but one or two pieces were now perpetually estranged. And that needed to be acknowledged.
To miss John once more. To wonder about him and where he may be.
To dread the strange journey that awaited. To bitterly realize that, even in death, he was being carried by unnamed forces, to and fro, guiding him down an ever-winding path.
To acknowledge that, even in sunlight or oxygen, Beverly would not be visible to him for most of his search. Her voice wouldn't buzz within his ears. Her wonderful hands wouldn't be within his reach.
She would exist to him always, as he'd so passionately stated. She was the same her, in every shape, every color, and he loved her in every form… but he couldn't deny that he preferred her in the flesh. He preferred her as his equal.
We see eye to eye.
He didn't even have a picture of her…
And yes, the Penns had one, surely, but he couldn't face them. Not while Pearly lurked about. Not while there was a chance to fool him into thinking that Beverly wasn't at all part of the narrative Peter Lake now belonged to.
For her sake, and the sake of her family, he couldn't return to the house where he'd first met her.
Not just yet. Not in a long time.
Nothing is ever enough… when love is lost.
Though he wanted to speak to Isaac again. To apologize properly. To mend that relationship. He wanted to hold little Willa in his arms…
Though mine isn't lost. Nor will it ever be.
But death had rendered his existence erratic. He would never be alive again. Never so completely present.
He probably wouldn't be able to touch them again. Not until Beverly had secured them a star of their own. Wings, too…
It'll just take a different shape. Speak a different language.
He turned around and looked at them, at his lover, at his friend.
Beverly's hair was braided thickly upon her green back. Constellations glinted on her skirts. Her slender, pink face was twisted into a sad grin. Cecil had his elegant hands on her shoulders, his mouth was moving slowly as he spoke.
"You won't be doing all the work, honey, don't fret. We're all working here."
"Yes, I know. As soon as I know where you need to go, I'll let you know… You know our language, better than I do, and better than Peter does. Listen to me."
"I will. You can count on it."
They were equals.
They'd had wings of their own. They painted the sky with light. They'd taken it upon themselves to teach others to fly. If Athansor would somehow emerge from the rising sun and stand between them, it would have been a vision… What a vision…
My heroes. My friends…
Peter Lake smiled once more, watching them.
And Beverly faced him, her liquid eyes catching the sunlight.
My Beverly.
Peter wouldn't try to capture every detail of her as she was now, before she joined the dawn.
I remember your face, when I returned to you and found you with Pearly.
Because his funeral was over. And they were still here. Cecil and Beverly and Athansor, even Athansor, somewhere in this air he was breathing, or this sun that now peeked up above his head. And that was all that mattered.
You were neither scared nor nervous. You were stiff with anger. When I picked you up, you were weightless. You were open to anything.
After the mourning, there was only the time ahead. Minutes, ticking away. The beating heart of a safe.
It's so difficult, love. To stand so still.
New lists, new thefts.
To wait so fearlessly. Only when I've wanted nothing but death, I've garnered the will to do so.
He'd forgotten how to make lists. He needed to learn again.
But I want to be as dauntless as you.
A new sunrise to glimmer off Pearly's gems.
To be as weightless to you as you were once, to me.
New coins, new potential tickets, for Cecil to be given.
And I will be.
One day closer to finding the little girl.
I swear to you.
One day closer to seeing Beverly again.
I trust you.
Every night in the Coheeries he'd watched the little redheaded girl, her little hand, the moon, and waited, doing nothing, for the morning to bring Beverly back to him.
And nothing happens that isn't supposed to.
Death was not too different from life. Morning always returned.
"I'll guide you home," Beverly murmured. "You and Cecil. I won't let them find you. And I know my notes… I'll teach you how to play your own… I swear, Peter. I won't return up there before I make that happen."
Home.
Beverly's realm was the starlit ceiling that once hid him away. The wafting breeze. The threads of light that connected earth and heaven…
No sky of paint. No stage. She was real.
She was not only a miracle, but the belief in them.
Home…
"I can't wait to hear my song," he replied softly. "Whether or not I am ever able to play it on my own. It'll be you, in my absence. And god knows you'll play it well."
She blushed a bit, and he adored it.
"Perhaps Cecil will, too," she replied to him softly, "or even Athansor."
Cecil laughed. The heavens twinkled. The city shivered.
"A horse playing piano," he said, in-between gasping guffaws. "I'd give up any coins to witness such a thing."
Beverly laughed, too.
To laugh through pain like theirs. Hers and Cecil's. The loneliness. The weight of these wings. That was a true miracle.
Peter chuckled, contributed to the glow. Beverly watched him with pride in her eyes.
"I'm an orphan with a father," he whispered, after a moment. "A magpie with a flock… Abandoned, yet found… Thrown, yet carried… Alive in death… Oh god. I'm the luckiest man in the universe."
"Your heart was never stolen, Peter," she told him gently. "It's always been yours. Through it all, it's been yours."
I didn't change you, you've always been like this.
He stared at her.
You're worthy of love, John had once told him.
For the first time, perhaps, he completely believed these words.
He loved to be loved. He loved to love her.
He loved to believe that loving these things was alright.
"Yeah, well... It doesn't beat anymore. It's another weight in my chest, like this breath, these thoughts that flood me. From the moment I met you, I was desperate to give you something that actually belonged to me. Anything that I'd ever truly earned. My hands, my memories, my lists."
"A chocolate bar."
"A chocolate bar, heh... Yes. I feared that I had very few things to rightfully give away..."
She breathed slowly. Tears were pooling her eyes.
"It's funny, though. Because I feel heavier, still. I never realized I had so much to give to begin with until now... That I had underestimated how much of myself I could give in the first place..."
I'm so, so proud of you.
"Don't give it all up, Peter," she said. "You promised you wouldn't disappear."
"Disappear? No. No, love, I can't. Because even if I did, you never would. And you are as part of me as I am of you, now... We've already given all we can to one another... Now, I suppose we need to give the rest to everyone else."
He saw it so clearly. Her understanding. His gaze, her eyes…
Feel me as I feel you.
And then, to both of them. To her, as well as Cecil. "It's hard to breathe underwater. It's so lovely to share a breath this thick. Thank you for making me a part of your story. I'm... I'm not alone. I'm not adrift. I'm held..." He grinned, chuckled, trembled. "I'm lucky."
Cecil smiled. And Beverly's eyes glinted, her lips twitched slightly, and at last, through tears of excitement, she chuckled.
It was time to leave. He knew where her mind was.
In a rush of dark clothes. A panting breath. A wolf, or two, or three. Runners retreating to the place where they'd slain him.
In the Coheeries, the house that now lay abandoned, the tent within which they'd made love on New Year's Day.
The house where they'd met. The piano room. The floor that squeaked.
Isaac Penn, before the flames. Willa's little hands, searching for something to hold. The woman trapped in the fire.
"Peter…"
Go on, Beverly. Go to them and be with me, too.
Peter Lake only opened his arms, saying nothing.
Be everything and everywhere.
He smiled at her.
Run. Fly.
And Beverly ran toward him.
Be the air we breathe.
Her beloved face illuminated. Eyes blue and open and thirsty for light. She let out a quick, heavy chuckle. Her red hair floated and lifted deliciously toward the sky.
The sunlight on our skin.
She barrelled into his embrace with a final, wondrous laugh and the foggy winter sun drenched her completely.
The wind knocked him back, lay him upon the sand once more.
My life. My miracle. Be both. You're extraordinary.
The river splashed around him, the cold water sprayed his face.
And as the sun pierced the darkness in his eyes, Peter Lake squeezed them shut and burst out laughing.
The sky glimmered. The wind thinned and sharpened into needle-thin daggers of ice. Stars sparkled across the clouds, though barely visible.
They were watching, amused. Watching Peter Lake, the thief, the orphan, the magpie, completely give in and believe in miracles.
A magpie giving up his light, letting his lover fly, just to prove that magic existed. And that he could attain her grace some day. Some day.
He laughed, like a little boy once did. A child with his same eyes. These eyes that would stare tearfully upon the skyline of New York in search of John, every day…
Feel me.
He'd never been alone. He wasn't alone now.
When he'd ridden away from her the first time, he'd already watched her become the sky and the sea. His thoughts of her had never ceased to pour out.
Feel me as I feel you.
Beverly was aglow. He could hear the music. Her fingers on the keys. When he opened his eyes, squinting at the white-gold clouds, he took in a breath, kept it for a beat, and then let it go.
I feel you, love.
Winter thickened as she dripped into it. Soldiers reforming, castles towering over. The river cooled further, drinking at his hair and the back of his neck.
Winter wouldn't end until she did.
Peter Lake laughed again.
I feel you.
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
To put you in perspective: At the current moment, I feel sick, I've had a bad cough for most of this week, my family is breaking apart and arguing while I type out this Note, the weather is rainy and cool outside, I have college classes tomorrow... and I'm so happy. Because I just wrote perhaps the happiest Peter Lake chapter in my entire "Winter's Tale" fanfic duology. I'm almost ready to shed a tear. I feel like I've come full-circle.
Considering that this is the part in the movie where Peter is supposed to be at his lowest point, with his memory wiped and a 100-year-long wait for answers before him, I am so glad I didn't go that route. That I'm making him not only be accompanied by Cecil all the way, and that they have a plan to get back at Pearly's gang and prove the stars wrong, while Beverly is helping them and her family as they grieve, but that I'm also making him be completely aware (and accepting) that Beverly is all around him. That she is with him, the keeper of his soul, his miracle, the person who made him her equal, her companion...
It's in days like these, for me, since I've been through days like these way too often, where I like to think of how lucky I am, in spite of all the pain my family has gone through and, by extension, I have gone through.
I like to think of the things I've accomplished. Of these stories, the drawings I make, the future I feel myself inching towards.
The friends I have. The very good people I have in my life. My parents, too, even when they're suffering. And even my brother, in spite of it all. My grandparents. My home.
I have also come full-circle with my own grief, I believe, with this Peter chapter. Where he allows himself to grieve himself without giving in to the loss. Where he ends it all by saying that he's the luckiest person in the world - because he should be good and gone, lost to ashes, corrupt to darkness, but instead he wants to keep going, he's held, he's loved and allowed to love in return...
I love him so much, guys. I loved him in the movie. I cared for him then. But given how much I've written from his eyes these last 2 years, I have only grown to love him more. I hope I someday find a man like him. Even though the chances of that keep striking me as highly unlikely ,) I once thought that my parents' relationship was unbreakable but... they are struggling more and more, it seems. And I don't know if they'll ever return to just being in love. Their bond is now wrought upon by concern for my brother.
But hey. Returning to my story. Peter and Beverly say goodbye laughing and looking forward. This is a farewell I drew some art about some days ago (on my Instagram you may see my illustrations, of the sun rising and Beverly and Peter smooching before they part ways), I wanted them to be happier now. They deserve it. Everyone deserves happiness.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for being here. Here's your hug, *hug* , you mean so much to me. These stories are my star. My little tent in the sky. My safety.