Digits

He sat on the floor, beside her bed as she slept.

Her hand was a map—the spider webs of veins running through her translucent skin were the pathways, and as he slipped his hand in hers, his digits were the destinations.

His iridescent eyes followed the road map, but did not see it. He did not see her let out a soft sigh and stir in her slumber, and he did not see the sun being charioted across the sky to begin the day anew. What Peter did see was Wendy, but not the Wendy in front of him. He saw her as she had been all those years (could it have been years? Surely not…) ago, with skin of porcelain and alabaster milk. Her face had not the creases it had now.

He secretly wondered if her eyes would still illuminate at the mention of mermaids, or if they would ignite at all. Beneath the curtains of snowy curls and her heavy lids, had they any light left?

His attention drifted down to her hands. He had not the memories of how they had been before, and had nothing to compare their present incarnation to. But they were still beautiful, even now, looking like nothing more than transparent gloves, stretched upon an angel's bones, laced with lilac threads.

Even in her ancient age, Peter loved her.

Disclaimer: I do not own Wendy or her mermaids, nor do I own Peter or his memories.