Page 152 of Losing Wendy
The captain examines me, and for once, he doesn’t seem cruel.Just tired. But he says nothing. I suppose even cruel pirates feel shame.
He opens his mouth to say something, but the ship gives a tremendous shake, throwing me into the captain’s chest. He catches me in his arms, holding me tight as my heart pounds. I struggle out of his grip, and he actually lets me go as the ship reels and shakes.
“I knew it,” I whisper, flashing the captain a quick grin.
The one he offers back is one of pity.
I spin around, gaze toward the heavens. Waiting for the shadowed wings to appear. For evidence of what rocked the ship to come barreling out of the sky. But the heavens only grow closer, glimmers of golden smoke painting them above us. When I turn toward the ocean again, I watch as the hull breaks from the grip of the waves, floating above the surface. Twin pipes stand tall in the center of the deck. That’s where the golden plumes are coming from.
“It’s the faerie dust,” says the captain. “We use it to power the ship when the wind proves obstinate.”
My heart feels as if it’s being plucked from my ribcage like meat off the bone.
We’re flying, but it’s nothing like flying with Peter. Nothing like falling, hurtling through the heavens. There’s the gentle sway of the boat in the wind, but it makes me feel unsteady, not free.
“I thought…”
But what do I even say? That I thought, even if it turned out Peter’s love wasn’t enough, at least our Mating Mark would compel Peter to fight for me? The same Mating Mark that compelled me to dig into the chest cavity of the man who tried to lay a finger on Peter. The Mark made me a murderer for him, so why isn’t it forcing him to fight for me?
The words escape me, melding in on each other, and I have to wrangle the last of them in.
“He’s not coming for you, Darling. Best get used to that idea.”
I stand and watch at the hull, hope wavering, until it becomes as small as the dot that is the Lost Boy’s island below us. We sailthrough the clouds, the heavens, until even the island isn’t visible through the fog. Until everything I have left to love is gone, my brothers just a faint memory.
Suddenly, the captain’s grip closes around my wrist. I realize then I’ve been stroking my Mating Mark absentmindedly. Slowly, he pries my fingers away from it.
“I thought…”
“You’ve believed plenty that’s not true.”
As we fly, the morning moon sets, bidding us farewell. I have a feeling about where we’re going. The second star to the right. Though I suppose it’s to the left from this angle. It’s not as if my human vision can locate the stars now that it’s morning anyway.
I feel it when we hit the distortion, because that’s when the pain hits me, strong and swift. Like being punched in the gut or having your fingernails plucked from your flesh one by one.
I fall to the deck, writhing in agony, my Mark searing hot against my flesh as I leave the world that is Peter’s.
“It hurts,” I say, cracking beneath the weight of the pain.
“Get up,” says the captain.
I don’t.
Instead, I let the pain take me, let it sear the edges of my mind. And for a moment, I hope it connects me to Peter. Hope he felt that same ripping as my body left Neverland. Hope that pain tethers us to each other like the Mating Mark didn’t.
Like his love for me didn’t.
That’s probably a silly thought.
But I’ve always had an abnormally high pain tolerance.
I laugh, and it’s the maniacal sort. Because as the pain hooks into me, twisting through my sternum, I know exactly what Peter will do.
He’ll tuck it away. Pretend it doesn’t exist.
He’ll go and visit our favorite places and remember me for the happy times we spent together, and he won’t give a second thought to my pain.
Pain.