There are hundreds of tales about children stolen by Fae. Stories of changelings and tricksters and the brave parents or siblings who dare the courts of the Sidhe to bring them home.
Peter should have been just another story, a child who toddled off and was lost but quickly found once more. Perhaps, if his father had been more attentive or his mother not died in childbirth he would have.
But stories have their own paths and not all of them are kind.
Peter had been found not by any of the usual Fae but by a creature some named a god, though whether it was in truth it did not deign to say. The creature took him in and nursed him on wild honey, goats milk and it's own blood until he was as strange and unnatural (or perhaps too natural) a being as itself.
It taught him many things: things no human child should ever know. Things about blood and magic and nature and death and the rebirth of the world. Then it gave him it's own name and created for him a sanctuary.
All it asked was that when he was done with his playthings (playfellows) that he give them to it as a sacrifice, to keep the island ever new, to keep him and itself ever young.
Peter agreed with all the solemnity in his young heart. Then the creature cut the heart from his chest and bound him to the island.
The Lost Boys know there is something not right with Peter. There is something wild and wholly alien in his eyes when you leave him alone too long. They know that sometimes one of them will disappear and Peter will return alone. They all pretend not to know what it is that stains his clothes long after his hands have been washed clean.
Peter forgets his lost friends as quickly as the day passes into night.
Always be listening my child, and if you hear him crowing be sure the window is latched tight. For Neverland is as much a realm of nightmares as any other dream and Peter Pan is it's dark king.
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Filled (tw. mentions of child murder)
Date: 2015-11-06 02:49 pm (UTC)Peter should have been just another story, a child who toddled off and was lost but quickly found once more. Perhaps, if his father had been more attentive or his mother not died in childbirth he would have.
But stories have their own paths and not all of them are kind.
Peter had been found not by any of the usual Fae but by a creature some named a god, though whether it was in truth it did not deign to say. The creature took him in and nursed him on wild honey, goats milk and it's own blood until he was as strange and unnatural (or perhaps too natural) a being as itself.
It taught him many things: things no human child should ever know. Things about blood and magic and nature and death and the rebirth of the world. Then it gave him it's own name and created for him a sanctuary.
All it asked was that when he was done with his playthings (playfellows) that he give them to it as a sacrifice, to keep the island ever new, to keep him and itself ever young.
Peter agreed with all the solemnity in his young heart. Then the creature cut the heart from his chest and bound him to the island.
The Lost Boys know there is something not right with Peter. There is something wild and wholly alien in his eyes when you leave him alone too long. They know that sometimes one of them will disappear and Peter will return alone. They all pretend not to know what it is that stains his clothes long after his hands have been washed clean.
Peter forgets his lost friends as quickly as the day passes into night.
Always be listening my child, and if you hear him crowing be sure the window is latched tight. For Neverland is as much a realm of nightmares as any other dream and Peter Pan is it's dark king.