Chapter Sixteen: Simply Devilish

"And Peter laughed, and when he did, all the Devils grinned, because Peter's laugh was a most contagious thing." - The Child Thief

Neverland woke when Peter took flight; the ferns upon the tips of the treetops, those closest to the stars, closest to Peter, yearned, longed, unfurled their green fingers out to him, calling him back down as the wild boy hooted, howled, crowed, adding his call to the snarling hidden in the shadows beneath his feet. Spears whistled past his ears and he laughed when he heard them cut the cool air, would sneer and shout down, hands cupped around his mouth, "Better shot next time, eh?" before he pulled his legs up tight to his chest, another spear, this one better-aimed, managing to nick Peter's ankle, for a moment, a second, and Peter bit back his wince, twisted it into a smirk, and asked, taunted, "That all you got?"

He was playing games, they all knew it, but even the Demons wished to have a little fun, they were still Boys after all, and with their prizes of the Tiger and the crazed Bird tossed aside, their fiery eyes to him, Peter, up above the trees, laughing and crowing and asking for it, they couldn't just let him get away; not this time, not again. Never again would they let Pan slip through their fingers, use his cowardly magic to fly away from his problems, them, the Lost Boys he'd stolen away and the War he'd caused. They would not let Peter win this game, not this time; he had plenty of wins. They'd like to know what it felt like to win, to see him as the loser for a while.

The Demons followed Peter's animal calls in hot pursuit, howling and snarling, spitting and huffing, their boyish nails suddenly claws that they raked through the fertile earth, pawed over as they ran, vines and flowers stamped underfoot as they howled to Peter's song. For a moment, they all forgot they were out for blood, out to fight at all; they could only feel the liquid redhot excitement coursing through their veins like fire, burning, erupting in their stomachs and pounding in their heads as they cut through plantflesh, through nymph limbs like it was nothing and they didn't hear their screams over the voices thundering in their ears, whispering for them to strike and strike true.

Peter was much too high to be aware of the Demons' slaughter of the nymphs, his mind focused solely on playing the game that he was completely ... unconscious to what else was happening around him other than the wind pulling at his hair, the belief taken colour and shape and glittering form around him, hoisting him on its faithful shoulders, tickling his sides and face as he goaded the game on. Peter wished to play and so Neverland obeyed.

Below his feet, the Demons stopped, sniffed the air, noses high, faces coated with blood and liquid shadow, hands on the hilts slick with fleshy green plant juice that glinted with flecks of precious metals, of internal magic; an older Boy, a rather good shot, held up his crossbow, aimed it, his tongue, lolled and animalistic, fell past his lip and pearly teeth as he squinted an eye shut, the black of his war paint looking like an eye patch. The Boy let the arrow go and it zipped through the trees; it caught Peter in the foot, right through the foot, really, the tip glistening up at him with a wicked gleam of vulnerability, whispering up to him as his fingers rushed to the wound that he was done for, that he couldn't run any longer. Not like he had anywhere to run, of course.

Peter's heart spiked and for a moment, he was slipping out of the air, the treetops that had seemed so welcoming, so desiring of him were suddenly clawing away at his skin until cuts marred his arms and legs, acorns and leaves stuck away in his hair; fear choked a cry out of him, not of falling, but pain. Peter had never had a very high tolerance of pain, and he was in agony; it was more than just the arrow still cut through the sole of his foot, it was the tug of his heart as he looked down at what had been his Boys, what were his Boys, with fires for eyes and mouths full of fangs that gnashed, clicked, clacked, as if they were imagining grinding his bones between their teeth already at the sound of his blood dripping down from his tangled spot in the tree. They howled and wooted and snarled like the wilderness that surged around them.

They began to climb, quick and fast, stabbing their arrowheads through screaming bark, grinning sadistically, dabbing their fingers in the trickle of Peter's blood dribbling down the truck, to where the collection of branches and twigs conncected. Peter struggled, though it only made his situation worse; he furrowed his brow then and swiftly stuck his hand near his belt, withdrew his dagger, trying to think of anything but the blazing eyes and shrieking mouths, claws inches from his feet.

Using his knife, Peter swiped long and hard against the branches and leaves that had entwined him; the nymph holding him shrieked in shock at his hit and pulled from him as if back-handed. He brought his bleeding foot up and kicked one of the forward-Demons in the jaw as he struggled to find groves to hold him up; he leaped for a high branch of another tree and once he caught it, he swung up into the leaves. Peter snapped the arrow through his foot in two and slipped both ends from the wound; he turned his wince to a sneer and jumped into the air, the belief surging around him, holding him up, and he aimed the bloody arrow tip to the animalistic Demons - Boys, his mind cried, your Boys, Peter!

Peter began to slip down again at the thought; he closed his eyes tightly and stuck both the arrow and his knife under his belt, the bud along his forefinger tightening so the circulation was cut, turning his finger numb, a silent plea. Peter twirled in the air and shot back into the constellations, running his blood-slickened hands through low clouds he could touch, painting them rosy as they'd never been since the Sun had stopped showing through the Dark. Peter could still hear them, their lustful shrieks for his blood, but they were fainter in the sky; in the sky, he didn't have to worry about what was on the ground. Peter revelled in the thought, savoured it, and laughed, taking the time to fly on his back, arms crossed behind his head, fingers tangled away in his hair. The coolness of Neverland swallowed him and Peter did a flip, suddenly flying with his stomach to the trees, arms out for balance but surely for experience, like wings that'd been torn from his back and replaced with arms.

Peter was unaware of the blood that still dripped from his foot nor how bled even quicker the faster he flew, behind him a banner that dripped upon the treetops, hit the Demons with blood rain that they cackled under. They were following quicker, even, swifter, their hearts roaring behind skeletal cages, laughing as their boots slid and they slipped, hands loped along spears and swords, knives and bows, as if they had been born to hold weapons, to search for the Lost, to kill and to maim the Boy with stardust in his bones, dirt behind his ears, storms locked tight behind his eyes.

The Demons let loose another hungry wail for the Boy in the sky, drips of his blood flecked across the masks that hid the Boys they were beneath all the conditioning of the Devil.

...

Neverland took care of its own, surely, as that was the case with the Wendybird as she fell through the air, a scream, a cry ripping up her throat, wings out, prepared to take flight once again - alas she was featherless, plucked from the pinching fingers of her parents, her brothers, her Aunt Millicent, the children of her school, the nuns with their stern words and hard slaps. The last of her feathers flew into the sky as she thought of what she'd forgot - her family that was no longer in Neverland, those who didn't deserve her, whom had housebroken the fires within her eyes to simple oil-lamps; Peter, how he was not as invincible as he led her to believe, that he was still a Boy, vulnerable and broken, Lost in his own jungle full of creatures he'd created, birthed, let flourish by his detailed eye and steady hand.

The tree beneath her reached for her with open arms of charred-black claws and Wendy threw her bare forearms before her face, awaiting Neverland's wildness to tear her apart. Instead, the claws rounded out, leaves grabbing hold of her gently, like a Mother's touch, a caress of ferns against her cheek, whispering. The tree dipped and placed her on the ground; Wendy opened her eyes, terrified storms, surprised at the cool dirt beneath her feet. She glanced around, suddenly too aware of the glint of steel behind the shadows of the Forest; grabbing a forgotten spear near her foot, Wendy ripped it up, held it out, toes digging into the dirt, her jaw clenching, eyes swiping between Demon after Demon, cornered.

The Demons came closer and Wendy glared, the storm brewing deep in her chest, fire blazing from the cuts in her wrists. She let out a crazed shriek and ran at the closest of them, about to swipe the spear across its throat. There was a choked cry of her name and the bushes were leapt over, a giant rushing for her, hands outstretched; the giant stopped short, eyes reflecting shock, shoulders falling, as he whispered a detached, "Wendy?"

Wendy looked to the Demon she'd been more than ready to murder, realising with a start that he was a Boy, his face not behind a mask, eyes wide and lip quivering. She pulled the spear point from his throat, eyes clouded in confusion. Taking a step back, her lace nightgown brushing her ankles, Wendy looked back to the shadows she'd thought of as Demons; all were Boys, some giants - Adults, she thought and snarled, grown-ups. Wendy lowered her spear to the Boys but aimed it to the closest grown-up, staring at her with disbelieveing eyes. "Wendy," The adult said, and Wendy glared at him, hefting the spear to her shoulder, just in case, "it's me ... Baelfire."

Wendy's face was remote; her fingers twitched. "No."

"Wendy, it's me," The giant calling himself Baelfire slid to his knees, his eyes searching her face, looking for whatever was left of the little girl he'd met all those ages back. "Wendy, please. It's me - Baelfire."

Wendy shook her head, a curl upon her forehead, hand tightening on the spear shaft. She swallowed hard, eyes still storming, calculating the face of the giant before him. Her muscles tensed, siezed, when she met the giant's eyes, the eyes she'd been avoiding looking at all this time. When she saw Bae in them, Wendy crumbled, the spear on her shoulder falling from her fingers, hands suddenly numb at her sides because in those eyes, she saw the Boy she'd come back to Neverland, the Boy she'd tried to save not from Neverland, not from Peter, but from the grown-ups, from the unfairness. Here he was, a man; she couldn't help the venom that spat in her mind, sizzling and popping.

The giant that was Baelfire came forward and wrapped her in a hug though Wendy barely felt the Boy behind it, hidden, trapped within those jail cells for eyes; all she felt was a man's hug, calloused hands running over shivering arms, a sob racking up a deep-sounding throat, the fur above his lip biting in her skin. Wendy lifted a hand, then both, needing to pretend, to hide her repulsion, and she did, allowed the cry from deep within her chest to break through, for tears to slicken her cheeks. The giant pulled away first, eyes glimmering, gleaming, and he cupped her face in his hands. "Wendy," he whispered, "how did you even get here? Why are you even here?"

Wendy smiled through her sheen of false tears, a broken smile, one she didn't have to pretend. She didn't say that this had been her wish, what she'd whispered to the stars; that she wished to see him and Peter again. No, instead she breathed out shakily, said, "I came for you."

The panicked fluttering of the bird within her heart began when he furrowed his brow, searching her face, whispered, "But, why?"

She didn't say she hadn't wanted him to have all the fun without her. She didn't say she'd been afraid of what Peter would've done to him, had he known Baelfire was her friend. She didn't say she was angry that he could just go to Neverland so freely when she was let to leave, to come back to her brazen family with their rules and expectations and means to keep the wildness in her caged and put out. She didn't say she'd wanted Peter to understand, to see she could handle Neverland, and going back had been her only chance.

Instead, she smiled with glittering eyes, said, "I had to protect you; Neverland only takes care of its own, Baelfire, and you weren't Neverland's." She stepped back slightly, taking in his stature, his long limbs, the fur at his lip, his sudden height. The only thing that really struck her as Bae were his eyes and even those had been changed to fit the Land she'd craved to leave behind. "I guess you found a way out, huh?" He let you go, too.

Baelfire nodded. "Yeah. I did. We're going to get out again." Neal fumbled with a leather pack at his side before he pulled a coconut from the mess of scrolls, maps, vials, glass bottles. He held it up for Wendy to see and she snatched it from his hand, eyes noting every detail; every poked hole and its depth, the feel of the fibers on her fingers. She twisted it apart and stared at the inside, the white coconut scraped away, a burnt stub of wax in the center of the lowermost shell. Wendy's eyes flicked up to Baelfire and she knew what he was planning; her thoughts wandered to what he'd said, what the Devil had confided into her. A trap. It was a trap.

Thrusting the coconut back to Baelfire's hands, Wendy looked around quickly, the spear suddenly back in her hand, clasped between her fingers, the bird in her heart shrieking, clawed feet gripping the skeletal cage, eyes gleaming with crazed fear and eruptions of fires. "Where's Peter?" She asked, spear point out again, aimed to the shadows near the back, those she couldn't see.

The Boys shared nervous glances. "He went out to get you and Tiger Lily," Thomas spoke up, biting back the fear coursing through his veins. "He ... should've been back by now."

Then they heard it; Peter's crow laced along the bloodthirsty shrieks of the Demons, mouths full of feathers. One of the shadows moved, darted forward; Wendy recognised this one as Tiger Lily and grabbed the girl by the arm, her fingers pinching her muscle, stopping her. The Tiger's eyes sparked and she whirled, though the fires dimmed at the sight of the Bird. Wendy nodded her head, a silent agreement, and both their eyes ignited with embers, the two turning back to the group of giants and Boys, between them two Fairies, one Lit and another de-Winged.

"We're going to get him back," Wendy said, the determination in her voice sharp and wicked, like her spear point. "Neverland doesn't tolerate cheaters."

The rest of the Boys raised their weapons, a chorus of whoops from their end; even the adults raised their arms high, the wildness of their domesticated fires suddenly spurting in their hearts. Wendy looked to each face, grinning with a mouth of pearly teeth, such a darling little girl smile with too wicked edges, too much fire and oldness in her eyes. She looked briefly on the Boy towards the front, the Boy she'd seen so many times when Peter had unfolded his picture and looked to it with such longing, such desire, such desperate need; she couldn't help the twinge of jealousy, if it could be called that at all. Peter moved along, there was no cage that could corner him; especially not a cage built of twisted twine by a little girl with wild curls and bloody hands.

Wendy led the war cry from deep within her chest, the shriek of a the bird that had transformed into a phoneix, wings ablaze with golden flames, fire streaked over redhot plumage; born of the ashes of the past, she shot into the night like a comet, her and her Boys, her and her legion of giants, her and the Truest Believer spitting haywire fires upon every branch they could burn, every seed they could reduce to ash, every Demon's mask they could crack.

This Devil had picked the wrong island to tarnish.

...

The Demons slowed in their pursuit, their sensitive ears picking up the shrieks from across the island; every head turned, every mask cracked, the fires burning down to reveal Boyish confusion set in their shadowed eyes. The Demons all shared a glance, spoke their unsettledness with uneasy waddles from foot-to-foot.

Peter had been absentmindedly flying on his back when he heard the cries. He'd tilted his head and stopped, dead mid-flight, ear poised to where the shrieks were coming from; Peter furrowed his brow, confusion crossing his face for a moment, resting his palm beneath his chin. He wondered briefly if the beasts of Neverland had wakened with him, if they were coming to aide him, to fly with him in the Heavens with its crystalised skies and twinkling stars. Glancing down, past his bleeding foot, Peter could no longer here the breaking of branches like bones; this boldened him and he swooped down, perched deep in the leaves, and watched those whom had hunted him so swiftly.

Peter had every right in his mind to kill these creatures with their masks of shadow and blood, but he refrained, if only so he could look at them a little while longer. They were odd, with gangly limbs and lenghtened nails for claws; they looked far more frightening in the Dark of the Forest, except for the confused glint in their eyes that had replaced their earlier malice. Peter tugged his dagger back out, the arrow from earlier nicking his wrist. He didn't notice, didn't exactly feel it; the Demon beneath his feet did, however, feel the dripdripdripping atop his forehead as he looked up with wide eyes.

Peter looked down and his eyes gleamed, his heart thrumming, and he lifted the hand without his dagger up in a wave. The child with the Demon's mask stared at him, his lips parting to reveal pearly teeth; when Peter saw this, he considered it a challenge, and bared his own fangs before letting loose a hiss. The Demon with the Boyish eyes stumbled back and Peter stifled a laugh from ripping up his throat, a smirk still presenting his bared stark-white teeth to the other fiery eyes that found him out.

They didn't make a go for him, and this confused Peter; it confused them, as well. With the Devil no longer there to pressure them in chase, they no longer had the urge. Peter noticed this and swung upside down from his branch, before asking, "Do you all give up yet?"

The Demons raised their eyes to Peter, but stayed silent. The pixies of Neverland chirped, the beasts rustled through the leaves, and the shrieks attacked Peter's ears. He was highly aware of the going-ons of Neverland though Peter rarely focused on them; he was far more focused on the Demons with their curiously-Boyish eyes and Peter couldn't let them possibly know something he didn't.

When none of them answered Peter, he sighed. "Are we still playing or not?"

They blinked and exchanged glances. How could this Boy, the one who'd stolen them away with sugary promises of a land where they would be rid of the cruelty of adults, how could he be the one they'd been shown to hate? How could he be the one they'd been training to kill? How could he be the one that they all would've stabbed through with a spear?

How could he be the one that'd left them in that camp with that monster? Where had Peter been when the Devil was converting the Boys, cutting out tongues, slipping nooses around necks, tightening ropes like strings as if they were puppets? Where had Peter been?

Peter noted the dark shadows that crossed the Demons' masks; they all hefted their spears, confusion turning to rage, rage at who - Peter could only guess. It could've been rage to him, though he hadn't a clue why; perhaps for leaving the camp, maybe even bringing them to Neverland in the first place. Peter didn't know and tried to convince himself that he didn't care to know - though he knew, as fire seared from his foot, he did want to know and he wanted to know badly.

Peter swung back up, the leaves shuffling to cover him as one of the Demons let loose their spear. The spear was deflected by a vicious vine; it shot back at the Demons and they scattered, hissing and snarling as animals once again. Peter furrowed his brow, trying to push the leaves away so he could see the Demons; the leaves revelled in his touch, yet nipped at his skin, pushed him back until he was further hidden, protected.

The Demons howled at him, eyes bursting with volcanic eruptions; Peter was reminded of lions with bloody maws, dragons with blazing wings, vipers with poison-inducing fangs. Peter sighed, pulled his knees to his chest, and listened to the Demons fight his leafy confines. After a long moment, he heard a cry, not of a Demon, but of a Boy, and Peter's eyes snapped awake. Using his knife, Peter lashed out at the leaves and vines and jumped from his tree to the wounded Boy on the ground.

Thorns had peirced the Boy's forearm and he was bleeding shadowy blood; Peter grabbed hold of the Boy's arm and ripped his torn sleeve, wrapped it tightly over the gushing wound. He did this several times until he'd practically run out of cloth; using the two ends he still had left, Peter knotted the cloth over the wound that was already bleeding through. He met the Boy's eyes and watched the embers ignite with the fear, with the pain, and he tilted his head and asked, quietly, "Jared. You alright?"

The Boy's eyes flashed and he stared at Peter, fingers brushing over his arm. "I-it's Dreamshade, isn't it?" He asked, fear constricting his voice to a crippled whisper.

The rest of Demons had lowered the weapons they hadn't thrown at Peter. They watched him closely, intently, fingers running testily over their weapons, a silent promise to skewer him if he tried anything, pressed his luck. They obviously cared to see what he would do yet they tried to hide their curiousity behind their masks with sneers that were without their usual razor edges. Their eyes weren't near as fiery and they seemed to cringe at the wound in the Boy's arm; they watched Peter's face, saw it change, and knew right then he was about to lie as he always did.

He was about to tell this Boy he wasn't about to die, that the poison wasn't turning his blood black, wasn't contorting his mind as it always did to the innocent and the weak. He was about to tell this Boy not to be afraid of the pain that was coming for him, the nightmares that would ravage his mind as his blood boiled and curdled in his veins. The Boy knew it, the Demons knew it, Peter knew it.

They were sick and tired of Peter's lies and as Peter opened his mouth to speak, to moisten that silver tongue of his, one of the older Boys by the name of Luke came forward and grabbed Peter by the collar of his bloody shirt, lifted him off the ground, and snarled, his lip curling. "Don't lie to him," He growled. "Haven't your lies done enough damage, Pan?"

Peter stared at the Boy and blinked in disbelief. When had he lied? What damage could his lies could've caused? The only time Peter recalled lying was to himself. Was that what Luke meant?

Luke seemed outraged by Peter's obvious befuddlement; in his anger, he threw Peter to the ground and brandished his spear, digging the tip into the soft flesh of Peter's throat. Peter swallowed hard and met the Boy's eyes, brimming with angry tears. "Don't pretend like you don't know, Peter!" He shouted, his voice cracking and spearing Peter until he bled. "Stop playing this like it's a game!"

The words circled Peter's head and he could feel the beasts pressing in, could feel it in his heart; as Peter's fears flashed before his eyes at the sound of his Boys giving up on him, Peter knew his Shadow was waiting for him, waiting to get him alone, to taunt him and torture him with these thoughts - horrible thoughts, enough to make him fall, to cease forever to fly with the weight of such adult responsibility on his shoulders.

Peter stared at Luke with wide eyes, at the Boy suddenly coming through the mask; they all were, he realised. Their slick tears, tears for their pasts he'd ripped them from, tears for the friends they'd lost, tears for themselves. Not a tear was shed for Peter and he couldn't help the tears that flooded from his eyes, too, as he looked to each face and mumbled off names that meant nothing now to the fires that raged in their shimmering eyes nor the black blood in their veins.

Peter had done this to them. He'd corrupted them; Neverland had corrupted them at his hand, with his help. He'd goaded it on, encouraged it, encouraged them to slaughter and fight and believe in him and forget their pasts, forget their pain, forget everything except for his name. They deserved far better than Peter - they deserved far better than Neverland could offer. They'd done something to change Peter's ways, to snap him back to reality when he was constantly dreaming.

It was too late now, wasn't it? It was too late for him to save them from himself, from what he'd created. He'd always believed he was giving them a life they deserved, a life full of adventures and games. He'd always figured he was doing the right thing, leading them to the place he'd called home since he was a boy; it was always their wish to be away from their current home, to find some place they could belong.

Did they not belong here in Neverland, with Peter?

Peter didn't know. All he knew was his head hurt, his feet were back on the ground, and the belief that had earlier wrapped around him was slowly fading. Many of the Boys' eyes turned devilish at the sight of the green evaporating into the air. The Boy, Luke, glared at Peter and hefted up his spear, surprised at seeing the tears that had cut through Peter's painted mask. Nonetheless, Luke and the rest of the Demons knew their duty; they were to bring Pan to his knees, to have him beg for forgiveness at their feet - to make him feel sorry for what he'd done.

They weren't entirely sure what he'd done to them to deserve such a fate; the Devil had told them mere stories and fables that they were sure had to be a bit ablibbed though they never let their disbelief show - the ones that had swayed from the Hanging Tree or tried to swallow without their tongues.

Peter looked to all the eyes and knew this was where it ended. He couldn't make them see his sense when all they knew was what they'd been led to believe. He didn't even know what his sense was, where it lie; he could only look at his former-Boys with a certain sadness, the sadness of knowledge, of knowing he'd lost something important such as them.

Jared let out a pained grunt as his blood twisted, his gut seared. Peter's eyes snapped up and he pulled the vial from his neck, clutched Jared's arm, and went to tilt the vial down. Luke slammed into Peter, claws sinking deep into his arm as Luke hit him against the tree that had so earlier protected him. Panic flashed across Peter's senses, clogged them. Luke snarled at Peter in a low whisper, a dare. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Saving him," Peter managed, finally finding his voice as his mind flashed and popped with white blazes before his eyelids. "The Dust. It'll stop the Dreamshade."

Luke snatched the vial, the cord snapping from Peter's neck. The sparkling neon Dust dulled at Luke's touch and he stared at the crystalised magic. He shot Peter a look. "What happened to it?"

"You don't believe," Peter said simply. "It won't work for you, Luke."

Luke stared at the vial in his palm, scraped away the dried blood with his fingernail, the hand that had earlier been deep in Peter's arm finding the Boy's collar; he twisted the fabric, making Peter's nose wrinkle as the Great Pretender himself fought to keep composure. "Make it work, Pan," Luke snapped, thrusting the vial under Peter's nose; Peter blew out swift and quick, the air from his flared nostrils unsettling the Dust. It swirled up for Peter yet he hesitated and gave it a different thought; of any whom needed the help, it was Jared, not him. He directed the Dust to the Boy's arm, to where the skin boiled and his veins throbbed, where the wound pumped black and oily. Peter sighed in relief when Luke loosened his hold, enough that Peter could lift his back away from the tree with its curling vines and its venomous thorns, the tree he'd had to hold back from killing this Boy for laying hands on him, for hurting him.

Jared flexed his arm and gave a tiny cry of relief, of disbelief, as his blood bled red; the Boy fell to his knees, clutching his arm, and began to sob. The remnants of his mask fell away and Luke's hand left Peter's collar completely.

Demons became Boys looking upon Jared, seeing his humanity bathe the dirt. Their swords felt like lead in their hands and for the first time in weeks, they felt tired. They were exhausted. Sick of running, of hiding, of fighting, of hunting. They were done. The Boys no longer wanted to play and no matter how much they resented Peter and his nightmarish island, they had to determine that this wasn't his doing. He hadn't demanded they come and fight for him; they'd learnt to fight for themselves. They'd learnt to request the fineprint before giving away their souls to a Boy with dirt behind his ears and volcanoes in his eyes.

For a moment, they were just a group of Boys. Then, Luke shook his head, shook out of his stupor. His eyes blazed and Peter sighed. Back to buisness.

Luke pulled away a scrap of rope he'd had stashed in his boot; he tied a knot to the front of the rope belt slashed across his midriff and beckoned Peter forward. Peter heaved a sigh, held his hands out and wiggled his fingers before placing them behind his back, crossing his wrists, as he asked, "Would you like me to bend over for you? Make it a little easier?"

Luke snarled and slapped the back of Peter's head, roughly grabbing hold of his hands as he crossed the rough rope along his wrists. Peter hummed, bouncing on his heels. "Done yet?" Peter asked, receiving a tight pull on the ropes, enough that even Peter's mask of apathy was broken and he let out a soft grunt.

"Done," Luke said, and Peter could hear the conceited smirk, could feel it in his bones. Peter flexed his fingers, disappointed in the Boy's surprising skill in knots; he wanted desperately to punch the sound of Luke's everything from his face and this successfully prevented him. It irritated Peter and Peter did not like to be irritated nor did he like the feeling of the spear tip digging in his back. He allowed it, only barely; Peter had to be fair.

"Walk," Luke commanded, and the Boys were Demons once again, wooting and howling, spears in hand; except for one little Lost Boy that stared at the Boy he had been sent to kill, to hunt, bright red blood finally seeming to clot, to slow in its descent from his arm and his veins.

...

Neverland woke more than just the beasts and Fairies of Neverland; it also wakened the Dark, the Shadows. All of the Shadows were different, some mangled and nightmarish, others mere silhouettes of whomever they'd formerly been attached to. One of them, Darker than the rest, turned its head to the stars; a wave of fear hit them and they snapped out like a light as the Shadow lifted itself from the ground.

It was always a wonder how something so Dark could find a happy thought to lift from the ground. The Shadow didn't exactly have a happy thought, really; it was just so incredibly light that it practically floated wherever it was. Once in the air, the other Shadows began to move about, a mass of bumbling Darkness. The Shadow turned and lifted a hand, fingers splayed; its voice, rough with misuse, echoed along the blackened canyon. Stop.

The rest of the Shadows merged uneasily, all of their glowing eyes to the Shade before them. It pulled its hand back and pointed to itself. Peter's in trouble. We'll move in, but do not alarm the island of our coming. We'll stop that bastard son of that meddling Captain from ruining our plans, if only we act as a single force. We'll come in from all sides - plauge them with our Darkness until they cave, wither.

The rest of the Shadows nodded their approval, whispered their agreement. Other creatures began to slink from their caves to listen to the Shadow; lions with chunks of their manes missing, tigers stripped of their stripes, lizards with smoke curling from their noses and fangs jutting from their lips. All shared the same blank stares, the same defeated slump of their shoulders, the same Darkness that had seeped into their very souls. Even the Wilds of Neverland found themselves nodding their heads, wishing for the Neverland the island had once been when Peter had been a good King, a King deserving of his crown - when he hadn't wanted it at all; before the interlopers had come and tromped on their lands, stolen away the Boy's innocence and his youth, before he'd left in search of new children to fill the holes that had been cut from his Heart.

We will stand as one and fight, the Shadow's rough voice grew louder and smoother, as if it were polishing itself along the cavern's walls. No longer will we hide in the Dark!

The whispers grew louder, Echo herself joining the revolt until suddenly the Darkness had found their forgotten voices; men with throats ravaged by sea spray, children whose cries had been cut short by Death's precise aim, the mystical melody of the Siren's song. All the voices came together in a rallying cry and the mass of Darkness rushed around the first Shadow, the first inhabitant of the cursed island.

Let us play, my friends! Let. Us. Play!

What am I doing though

Wendy and Baelfire are really cute guys I wanted ouat to make them a thing so we could've had everything nice and wonderful and Panry but no

but you got some Wendy/Bae anyway because I CAN DO THAT I HAVE POWER

YES I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING TO PETER NOR WHY THIS IS SO SHORT

BUT

STILL, AN UPDATE

BUT GUYS. GUYS. THE CHILD THIEF. BE AFRAID BE SO AFRAID BECAUSE I AM TERRIFIED I HAVEN'T FINISHED IT AND BROM IS ABOUT AS SADISTIC AS THE REVEREND I AM SO AFRAID FOR PETER AND NICK AND I AM UPSET

WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF

I should probably mention that next week I may not update. I don't know if you all want an excuse but my mom has the kids she nannies AND THEY'RE STAYING OVER FOR LIKE THREE DAYS AND THAT'S NOT OKAY AT ALL.

But I do recommend The Child Thief though I have yet to finish it and don't want it to end because I'm afraid of endings. I recommend it only if you can stomach the sort of sadistic gore, heavy cursing (practically every sentence in the beginning, which I find hilarious), intensive feuding between Magic and Religion, and a wonderfully tragic backstory for Peter. There is also a ton of history and things that back it all up and Brom did such research and is an amazing writer and artist and he arts the characters.

I haven't finished it yet, so that's a bit terrifying because it's supposed to leave me hollow for three days afterward. I live for it.

I'll see you all in the next chapter whenever I come about writing and posting it (if Brom's Peter hasn't already ripped out my heart and consumed my soul).